


Open Your Eyes (Johnlock)

by mooses_gabriel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcoholic John, Depression, M/M, Nightmares, Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:47:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooses_gabriel/pseuds/mooses_gabriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written based on the lyrics of 'Open Your Eyes' by Snow Patrol. </p>
<p>John turned to alcohol after witnessing Sherlock's death which brought on the nightmares he can't escape. Sherlock's return is not enough to break his habit, or stop the nightmares that plague John. As Sherlock tries to help his blogger their bond is strengthened as they fight their haunting past. They will have to piece together their lives, just the two of them against the rest of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Posted from my wattpad account mooses_gabriel

All this feels strange and untrue  
And I won't waste a minute without you

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

John's POV

I knew it wasn't going to end well. It never does. Yet I went ahead, ignoring the ... voice that sounded like someone I once knew, and let go of feeling. I let go of caring. But I never let go of the memories. No matter how hard I tried it never worked. I tell myself it isn't because I don't want to forget, I don't let myself believe I can't stop remembering because I was there when it happened.

Pulling my coat a little tighter against the wind I sarcastically thank whoever cares enough to fake listen to my thoughts -I've never been one for religion- and walk a bit quicker. I block out the haunts of days past, nearing my destination.

Even at night the building looks shabby, like it dreads its own existence; and those who glance during the day pity the dreary structure and speed up their pace. Its tortured bricks try to escape their burdensome and have succeeded, leaving precarious holes in the wall. The windows are unfamiliar with glass, and the roof debates with itself; constantly wondering if it should just cave in to put the sorry ruble to rest once and for all. But for now, it stays put, shuddering perhaps, at its disgusting remains, yet not putting the old tavern to rest.

I enter the unapologetic bar as I wait for guilt or regret to come slinking around the corner, smiling slyly and saying "Did you miss me?" I sat down at my regular seat, an unstable bar stool near the wall, and near the alcohol.

I don't say a word as the bartender brings me my usual, an empty glass and a bottle of whiskey. I continue my silent crusade against my mind as the familiar face pours me a full glass and leaves the bottle. The man knows I won't say much, he wouldn't have much to say to me and vice versa anyway. As long as I pay for the alcohol and he doesn't give me looks of disdain, I may consider him a neutral and constant being in my life.

He leaves, and I don't miss his presence, nor do I feel cold air where he was. I feel empty, as I always do. I nearly sigh as regret slides in the seat next to me and brings the glass to my lips, smirking as I down half the glass in a single go. I didn't bother to grimace at the burning sensation as it scraped down my throat. I barely even noticed.

When the bottle was gone, and I was numb enough to not feel the cold outside, I left the money under the empty glass and left the crowded tap. I didn't have money to get a cab, I'm not entirely sure how I had money to pay for the drinks, but I didn't want to be driven anywhere anyway. Too many memories.

I took the same route home I always do, cutting through alleys and back streets, avoiding any paths I had been on with him. I shook my head. No. I can't think of him. Not when I don't have any alcohol left to dilute the pain.

Trudging on, I finally made it to the apartment. I didn't make eye contact with the number, for it always glared at me. I tried to tread up the stairs quietly but I knew Mrs. Hudson heard me. I knew she would be sitting at a chair, reading, staying up until she heard me come back every night. Just in case.

I knew she was sitting there, hand over her mouth, shaking her head, and doing everything in her will power to not come and shout some sense into me.

I limped to my room, the pains in my leg coming back concurrently with the alcohol and memories. I didn't let myself look around the main room, instead I slumped onto my bed, double checking that the trash can I throw up in is beside the mattress.

~*~*~*~

I hurried down the street feeling a strange and overwhelming sense of anxiety. The foreboding de ja vu coursed through me as I paced down the side walk weaving between the passing nameless faces. I hadn't the faintest idea why I was so compelled to go forwards; I was running towards the finish line without knowing where the race ended.

As I neared a corner I felt my phone ring. I pulled it out and answered Sherlock, still walking I pressed answer and put the phone to my ear. I heard unsteady breathing on the other side, and grew suspicious immediately.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" I asked feeling the dread grow and move inside me.

His voice was rushed and urgent, which only made me more alarmed, "Turn around and walk back the way you came."

I was confused, I had to hurry even though I didn't know why, "No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask. Please." He said with a slightly forced voice, as if he was struggling to keep his voice steady.

Something about his tone made me stop and back track, "Where?"

"Stop there." He ordered.

"Sherlock." I was alarmed by now, and froze in my tracks looking for him.

He exhaled before saying, "Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

Hearing this I searched for him above the towering bricks. I spotted him by the ledge of the building in front of me, and immediately my heart speed up. "Oh god." I stated fearfully, he looked like he was ready to jump.

"I- I- I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this." He said softly, but his voice seemed unsteady as if his throat were clenching shut from emotion.

"What's going on?" I asked, adrenaline starting to seep through my capillaries and my heart beating faster every moment.

He paused for a fraction of a second before saying, "An apology. It's all true."

No don't let this be what I think it is, "What?" I asked in an almost accusatory tone, trying to tell him not to lose sight of himself.

He drew in another shaky breath that I barely heard, but it was enough for me to know he was lying, "Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

My face scrunched a little as my eyes narrowed and my brows drew together, "Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock-"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes." He said with more confidence, as if trying to convince someone, whether himself or me I couldn't tell.

I was done hearing him doubt himself, or trying to, or whatever he was doing, "Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met-the first time we met-you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever." And even from down here I could tell he shook his head.

"You could." I said sincerely, knowing it was true. He was amazing.

I could almost hear the pain in his voice as he kept whispering lies in my ear, "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick." I narrowed my eyes at this. What the bloody hell could that mean?

"No. Alright, stop it now." I started walking again trying to get to the building's stairs.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." He said and moved closer to the ledge.

"Alright." I would stand here forever to keep him from doing anything that could be undone.

His voice caught when he said "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" I asked fearing I already knew the answer.

"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." He stated, his voice cracking slightly and I knew he was crying.

Hoping if I acted innocent enough he wouldn't do it, I ask. "Leave a note when?" I asked as I held my arm out like I was trying to touch him. My extended hand and attempt to say 'don't leave me.' I saw him do the same, as if he were trying to pat my shoulder one last time like saying 'you were there for me and I will always be grateful for that.'

He saw through my question act, I suppose because he whispered, "Goodbye, John."

I knew he was going to do it, I saw him move his arm, tossing his phone away. He didn't hear me say "No. Don't-" I wouldn't have known it was because he had tossed his phone to the side. He didn't hear my last words and I never had a chance to tell him. I shouted "Sherlock!"

And then he was falling.

His arms spread, letting gravity grasp him. His coat flapped behind him as he moved slowly, but quickly at the same time, hurtling towards the cement. I screamed and ran towards him. His coat spread behind him, like a parachute of sorts. I was below him my arms open and prepared to catch him even if it killed me.

And then the most miraculous thing happened, his coat became black wings and just as I was about to grasp him, he shot into the sky, a few feathers coming loose and trailing behind him. I watched in awe as he ascended, his wings slicing through the air. He rose majestically, a rogue angel, needing to spread his wings. Then his wings were torn apart by invisible hands and the glory ended. The feathers fell to the ground like stones as he fought the force beating his wings. He was struggling to stay aloft and it seemed like he was losing and falling once more through the thick air.

And then he was gone. I picked up one of the ink black feathers. It was covered in red blood. Confused, I looked around and saw Sherlock lying motionless at my feet, his head covered in the scarlet liquid. He must have fallen so hard so fast with his wings ripped from his shoulders, and I, being a mere mortal, was not graced the honor of seeing the dark angel fall to his fate.

I was only left with the battered body, and he was losing his life at the rapid pace of the very thing trying to keep him alive. His heart. It was pushing the blood through his veins but they were sliced open, a wound no miracle would stop. The blood poured from his head and his back from where his pride and freedom were torn from him.

I knelt beside him, cradling his head, his wings gone. The feathers around me blew in the wind, some catching on Sherlock and I. They began to stick to what they touched and I sobbed as the feathers beside me melted into dark blood and covered the ground in their crimson stains.

~*~*~*~

I bolted awake, sweating and panting. The nightmares were getting worse, this time he almost lived only to die at my feet. Feeling a surge I nausea I quickly grabbed the trash can I'd placed there earlier from the floor beside my bed and heaved violently.

The images of Sherlock laying there were burning in my mind, his porcelain skin painted with vermillion, his life slowly seeping out of him, as if hesitant but forced. Another round of nausea roiled through me as I emptied my stomach.

With a shaky hand I weakly set the bin back down. Forcing my eyes to stay open, so I wouldn't see those images again, I focus on every single line and bump and of the ceiling.

Every night I tried to sleep, and every night my mind killed itself slowly. Worse than anything I saw in Afghanistan, his fall tortured me every waking moment, and in my sleep, it came even closer to killing me. I was losing weight, everything I ate would only be thrown back up when I woke. I was often dizzy, I hadn't slept more than five hours a night in the past seven months.

I was dying, and for some reason, that comforted me. Knowing that someday, I won't have to deal with this, this... whatever this was. Existence. This wasn't living, it was dying. It was biding my time before I fell to my own end.

After gaining enough strength to stand, I got up, the bed beneath me creaking as it was relieved of my weight. I shuffled, more accurately stumbled, to my door and down the stairs. My mind on autopilot, step, step, step, until I reached the bottom of the stair case. Then left, right, avoid couch, forward, until I was in Sherlock's doorway.

I leaned on the wooden frame for a moment, lingering like I always do. Some voice that sounds a lot like Sherlock's tells me not to go in because it HIS room and not to touch anything because it's exactly where it should be. I ignore it, just like I have every night since the funeral and with a slight catch in my breath I step across the threshold into his room.

I mutter a small breath of profanities as my knee twinges in an unexpected jolt of pain. Limping to his bed I lay down on the soft sheets, sinking into their empty comfort.

I huddle under the duvet, trying not to let the images return. I curl in on myself, hands covering my face in an attempt to block everything... anything. I focus on nothing else but the sheets and the pillows. It slowly works and I feel myself surrendering to an uneasy blackness.


	2. Chapter Two

My bones ache, my skin feels cold  
And I'm getting so tired and so old

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

Third Person POV

Mycroft stood, exasperated with his younger brother, who was dressing himself. "I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?"

Sherlock, who had just buttoned up his shirt and was observing himself in the mirror, ignored his brother's question, "What do you think of this shirt?"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked, annoyed and stressed.

Sherlock sighed and turned to his brother, "I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft." He fixed the collar on his shirt before continuing, "Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in - feel every quiver of its beating heart."

One of Mycroft's many assistants spoke up "One of our men died getting this information. All the chatter, all the traffic concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London - a big one."

Sherlock shrugged on his famous jacket as he asked curiously, "And what about John Watson?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at his brother, "John?" Mycroft said with a slight smirk, implying Sherlock having feelings for the shorter man.

Sherlock, bewilderingly oblivious said, "Mmm. Have you seen him?"

"Oh, yes - we meet up every Friday for fish and chips!" Mycroft said sarcastically. After seeing the look Sherlock was giving him he added "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course."

As Sherlock looked through a folder with pictures of John in it his older sibling asked, "You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?"

"No," Sherlock whisper. He cleared his throat and said "We'll have to get rid of that."

"We?" asked Mycroft, not knowing Sherlock was referring to John's mustache.

"He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man." Sherlock said amused. He set down the file and left, his brother staring after him curiously.

~*~*~*~

Sherlock POV

I was in no rush as I strolled down the back alleys, the sky about me dark with few stars shining through the city glow. I was glad to be back in London, and I had a huge case nonetheless! To top it off soon I would be reunited with the only person who I ever wanted to let in and be understood by.

I turned my coat collar up against the wind, glad the weather was uncharacteristically dry; there was not a single cloud which rain would fall from. I decided to warm up my deductions; I had not been able to study people as frequently while I was taking down Moriarty's network.

I suppressed a grimace at the thought, I preferred London to anywhere, solving murders and catching serial killers is my first choice. Nevertheless, being a spy was an excellent way of learning how the criminal mind works.

I look up from the sidewalk under my pacing feet, choosing to observe the people I pass.

An elderly lady is walking in the same direction as I am on the opposite side of the street. I looked over at her and scowled at her choice in clothes. Her magenta shawl and fuzzy scarf are horrendous. I quickly learn she has four, no, five cats, and has pictures of all of them in her bright yellow wallet.

I walk on, my feet gliding across the pavement.

A lady, mid-thirties with a dark blue blazer and pencil skirt. Her hair is in a bun, pieces loose from being tucked up so long, ink on her left hand above her pinky. A journalist, I decided.

An old man, hair line receding, dress pants, warm coat, tie and collared shirt. I spotted some tickets in his left pocket and assumed he was walked home from the theater.

I turn my nose up as I pass a group of teens. A girl with her arm around her boyfriend, but based off the looks she is giving to the male on the end she is disloyal but her partner doesn't know. Her friend, who spends too much time on Facebook, knows about the affair but doesn't care.

I shake my head, what was it like to be a normal teen? I would never know, nor do I want too.

I walk along, marveling at the deserted London streets; I look for a sign to tell me which road I had wandered to in my stupor, astonished to find I was near the edge of the city. Few cars roll past and I look down an alley to see a cat jump into a trash bin in hopes of finding a scrap worth consuming.

I cross the pavement and stroll down a dark and silent back road. I breath in, the pungent smell of old garbage overwhelming my nose and I exit the narrow passage and continue in the direction I was headed. Down another road. Up another alley.

I heard the sounds of drunken crowd and shrink into the shadows. I didn't want people to know I was back yet, and intoxicated people are way too chatty for my liking.

I choose to go back to my flat, I feel something strange, almost a homesick longing for it, something I've never experienced before.

I see a lone drunk stagger from a run-down building. I sigh, feeling a sense of familiarly wash over me. I shrug it off and slowly walk home, taking a many alleys and side roads, wanting to enjoy the night air as long as I can.

~*~*~*~

I triggered the police radio, assuring the feedback to go through all of the officer's microphones. When the officer nearest me went to remove his earpiece I lunged forward. I grabbed his gun, John's eyes going wide. Everyone stills and looks at me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" I ask loudly to remove them from their shock.

None of them move, so I raise the gun above my head firing twice into the sky. They all jolt in fear as the band resounds.

"*Now* would be good!" I say annoyed, and knowing back up would be surrounding us soon. John and I do not have time for their starring and open mouths.

Lestrade sees I'm serious and yells "Do as he says!" Everyone slowly bends down and puts their hands behind their heads and knees on the damp pavement.

John stiffens beside me and stutters, "J-just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just, uh, you know..."

I interrupted him so he wouldn't make a fool of himself, "My hostage!" I shout as a point my gun at him. No one could tell but I made sure the safety was on, I would never really point a loaded gun at my blogger.

John breathed out, "'Hostage,' yes, that works. That works. So what now?" He mutters the last par to me as we run from the people kneeling around our flat.

"Doing what Moriarty wants; becoming a fugitive. Run," I yank the chain linking our wrists together as he and I spring between the buildings.

We darted behind an alley, my heart racing as we skip between shadows. I can hear our breathing and foot step, the rest of the world quiet in comparison to the two of us.

I glance at John and an idea, from where in my mind palace I am not sure, takes over me.

"Take my hand," I command while the chain between us clicks with the sound of metal hitting metal.

John grasped my hand as we ran down another alley.

"Now people will really talk." He deadpans as we stumble across a crack in the side walk causing me to throw the gun.

"The gun," he points out.

Knowing it would incriminate us further if we are caught and we still have it I reply, "Leave it."

We keep running and I glance at the sky, scattered with stars it is beautiful.

I tighten my grip around John's hand, confused as the why my heart has doubled in pace. I am not out of shape.

I shrug it off as we near a iron fence in a dark alley, I leaped onto a trash can and over an fence, holding back a swear when my arm caught and I saw John on the other side of the fence glaring at me.

He grasped me through the fence and brought me close to his face. I gulped as the intense look in his eyes made a new feeling erupt in my stomach. The soft glow from an old lamp in the alley glowed on his face as he looked sternly at me and said "Sherlock wait! We're going to need to coordinate."

I nod and look away from his gaze feeling heat creep up my neck. It's just from the running, I tell myself.

~*~*~*~

I snapped out of my trance and see I have subconsciously wandered over to Baker Street. I sigh in relief and stride to 221B. The knocker on the door looks abandoned, and I worry John has moved out.

Don't be pretentious Sherlock, Mycroft said he was still here and 'He has developed a bit of a drinking problem but that's not surprising. After all, alcoholism runs in families and we know how his sister is.'

I grimace at my brothers words; surely John has more strength than that.

Solider

Brave

Strong will-power

I dig my key out from my deep coat pocket and unlock the door, unsure why I'm holding my breath as I hear the click as the lock shifts and the door opens.

My arm extends as I push the door open, my silhouette casting a shadow across the floor. I step through the door frame and smile. Baker Street can relax, I am back where I belong.

I debate waking Mrs. Hudson just to hear her familiar shouting, but I want John to be the first to know I'm back. I smirk as possible reactions play in my mind, and I picture him angry in most of them, it's his favorite emotion as far as I can tell.

My eyes widen as I find myself softly chuckling at the thought. I creep up the stairs as silently as I can, avoiding the squeaky one about halfway up the stair case. I open the door and stand in shock.

Not a single thing was moved.

John left everything where it was.

He was waiting for me to come home.

It takes a moment for my mind to wrap around that thought. John wanted to remember me so much that he... left the flat exactly how I had it.

I walk in to the room and breathe in the smell of my home. I look to the stair case that leads to John's room, deciding to wait until morning to surprise him.

My feet pad across the floor and I enter my room. I kick off my shoes and change into sleep pants and a white shirt. I turn around and my eye brows draw together in confusion.

There is a man in my bed. 

I looked closer.

John is in my bed.

I scan him, noting all the slight differences in his appearance. His mustache, which still needs to be removed, his hair is about 3 centimeters longer than he usually kept it. The hollow around his eyes are purple and he is paler then I remember. His cheeks are caving in on themselves and my eyes trail down his body to see he's lost nearly 16 pounds.

I frown as I recognize the effects of the depression and alcoholism on my blogger. He shouldn't have done this to himself over me.

I'm just a high functioning sociopath with few enough people to call friends that I could count them on my hands.

I shuffle my feet, not knowing what to do. I don't want to sleep anywhere else, and seeing John wrapped up in my blankets makes my heart flutter. I snort at the thought. I must be very tired. No point in sleeping anywhere else so I crawl into the sheets next to John and I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I sigh and turn so I'm facing the wall and let myself relax.

I am nearly asleep when his foot glides across my calf, startling me to the point I nearly fall out of the bed. He whimpers and his brings his hands up to cover his face. I lay back down, realizing I had been staring at him. He relaxes and shuffles closer to me. I freeze as he sighs, his warm breath tickling my neck. I don't move, but wonder why being so to him close affects me so much. I try to calm my rapid heart and slow my breaths.

Slowly, I drift into sleep, but not before feeling a pair of arms circle themselves around me.


	3. Chapter Three

The anger swells in my guts  
And I won't feel these slices and cuts

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

John's POV

I woke up to a sun that was just now rising at the horizon, its light trying to falsely cheer up my mood. I look around, sensing something strange, and I notice the covers are oddly pulled to the opposite side of the bed, as if someone got up and the sheets clung to them as they went.

I shrug and get up, heading to the kitchen before Mrs. Hudson comes in to check on me like she does every morning. I've been lucky in these past months she hasn't found me in his bed. Though, there've been times when she's found me passed out drunk in the bathroom, my head over the toilet. Those days are the ones where it's all too much, and I'm not proud to say that's at least half of them.

Thinking I owe Mrs. Hudson more than I can return, I began brainstorming ways to show my gratitude for putting up with my sorry soul. At the same time I was pouring myself a glass of liquor at six in the morning.

I sighed to myself as I swallowed the clear poison, shuddering as it burned all the way to my empty stomach. I stared as the glass in my hand, wondering if rehab would be enough for Mrs. Hudson, most of the time she can't even look at me when I've got a drink in my hand. It makes her too sad, seeing what I've done to myself.

I wasn't concerned with my habits, but I did feel sorry for my sweet land lady who had to do more than just put up with me. She has helped me, even when I didn't want it, I need her. Seems like these days I can't do much by myself, I don't know why she doesn't just tell me to pack my bags because she's had enough of my issues.

I walk out of the kitchen, drink in hand and freeze when suddenly I see him standing, looking out the window. He is everything I remember, a bit skinnier than he was, but I would recognize his slight curves and curly dark hair anywhere.

Sherlock is standing in our flat.

Sherlock is in our flat.

Sherlock.

I blink a few times, and rub my eyes but he is still there. I look at the drink in my hand and mutter, "I didn't think this was THAT damn strong."

I rub my hand that isn't holding my drink over my forehead and sigh. My head is pounding from the hangover and the last thing I need is to hallucinate that he is back and just looking out the window.

He seems to have heard me, and he turns to look at me. I could swear I saw a look of regret or... sadness? Whatever it was it flicked through his eyes faster than I could decipher it and a small smile tugged at his lips.

"You know, drinking so much is bad for your liver." He spoke softly, sarcastically... but with concern? Surely this is not the real Sherlock, but at least he spoke.

I just stand there, staring at him, contemplating on finishing this drink and enjoying the illusion while he is here, or dumping the liquor down the sink and wishing he wouldn't speak to me like that.

"No, no, no, no. You're not real." I ignore his comment, shaking my head in disbelief.

He stands there, watching me as a down another sip of my drink, not even making a face as it burns down my throat. I'll just finish this drink, no need to waste it since I've already poured it.

I look up to see him watching my lips as I subconsciously lick them to ensure no drops of liquor are left. I sigh, thinking this hallucination isn't going anywhere anytime soon so I decide to speak to him as if he were really here.

"So that's it then?" I ask, and he seems to be contemplating what it is I'm asking. "You're just going stand there and act as if NOTHING HAPPENED!?" I shout, furious that he seems so placid when he should be dead.

"You are just going waltz right in here, back from the dead, and all you have to say is that it's bad... for my... liver?" I pause and as he is about to reply a cut him off before he can start "EVEN MY HALLUCINATIONS PITY ME!" My voice shaking, and no doubt Mrs. Hudson heard me through the thin walls. He froze, something I would call shock blanketing his features. Good, maybe he will disappear and I can drink in peace.

"Jo-" he begins, but for the first time ever he stops himself and stands there speechless.

"God, why can't you just... Leave. Me. Alone?" I demand and he looks hurt. I take his silence as the unwelcoming invitation to continue, "You, Sherlock Holmes, you told me you were a fake, when I know you are not, and jumped off a damn hospital building. And, as if losing you was not a big enough pain, you have to keep tormenting me. All day all I can think about is 'What could I have done?' 'Is it my fault?' 'What would have happened if I had been able to save you?' And then, I go to drink. You should know it's because of that I can see you right now, but instead of making it better, it just makes it worse."

Sherlock, my intoxication induced Sherlock, stands there, fiddling with his coat. His fingers were running across the fabric in an attempt to calm his nerves and hold his tongue so I could finish my rant. His eyes are hard and he stares at me unmoving.

"And I keep drinking each night," I whisper now, overcome by sorrow and unable to yell, "hoping that maybe tonight is the night I can move on with my life; maybe when I wake up the next morning I won't miss you so much, and it won't hurt so bad." I pause, tears welling in my eyes, but I ignore them, staring at the floor.

"But I am always wrong. Unlike you, I am not right one hundred percent of the time. I am wrong every night. I go to bed, and I can almost feel the alcohol in my veins, and sometimes I wish it would just kill me already, but other nights I hate myself for doing this." I take a deep unsteady breath and pause for a moment before I seak again, "I wanted to hate you, for leaving me, but I could never. Then, once I'm asleep, you are still there in my bloody nightmares. Every night I have to relive your death, each night I think I have a chance of saving you. And I never can. But, really, the thing is I couldn't ever save you. No one can save you because you don't want to be saved." I pause to breathe, trying hard not to stutter with my words. "You told me you are not a hero, but you are closer to one than I am. I just wish, I could have been one for a day, so I could have saved you. And I am sorry for that."

I finish, feeling the tears roll down from my eyes and across the barren landscape of my face. He glances at me and though he doesn't say it out loud, I don't think he can, I can tell he was trying to express how sorry he was.

And I believed him.

Sherlock sighed and I could swear I saw him trembling, from what I will never know. I wipe my eyes, staring at him as he concentrates on the floor.

"Sherlock" I whisper.

His bright eyes snap back to mine, my heart pounding at the connection.

"It's me John." He says quietly, raising his eyebrows slightly and making an apologetic face.

I walk over to him and hesitantly raise my hand, looking to him for permission but his eyes are trained on my hand. I extend my arm and my hand brushes his arm. He feels solid.

"Oh my god," I whisper, barely audible.

My eyes widen in shock, the glass slipping from my other hand; nor do I hear it as the glass shatters, the shards sparkling and dancing across the floor.

My jaw hangs open, as I grasp his arm; it's still there.

"Oh my god! Sherlock!" I exclaim. His eyes flick from my hand to face, probably deducing me, seeing if I'm going to go crazy and punch him, which is a tempting thought.

Instead, I surprise us both and lunge forward, my feet further scattering the bits of glass. I grasp him and pull him into a hug. My arms wind arm his neck and I raise up on my toes to pull him down into the embrace. He stiffens for a moment, unsure what to do with his arms, but then loosely wraps them around me and awkwardly pats my back. I sniff, tears welling in my eyes again.

I sigh and lower my feet, unable to stay up on my toes without Sherlock to balance against. I look around and realize I had dropped my drink while being amazed by Sherlock. I step back, failing to blink away the tears, and wince when my foot lands on a piece of glass, but unable to stop my motion the glass that my foot had been on pierces through the arch of my foot. I shout out in pain as it rips through the muscle and cautiously shift my weigh to my other foot.

Sherlock's bright eyes widen in concern as I try to balance on my good foot. I stumble and Sherlock grabs me, pulling me to his chest. My heart is racing and my breath is uneven from the fright of nearly falling. His eyes meet mine, and I subconsciously lick my lips. His eyes dart down to the movement and then back to my eyes. His breath mingles with mine due to our close proximity, and then he smirks and leans closer. My pulse speeds up as his lips are by my ear whispering, "You really should take better care of yourself John."

Yeah well I have no right to be shocked, it's not like I didn't just learn you're not dead or anything.

I lean back as does he and as I'm about to reply another round of pain shoots through my foot and I gasp as it stings. Sherlock sighs, and before I have any say in the matter, I'm being lifted. I am speechless as Sherlock cradles me to his chest and says, "Looks like I'll have to carry you, seeing as you are unable to stand let alone walk."

I open my mouth to protest but he already has me in his arms bridal style. No words make their way out as my eyes widen at the feeling of his abdomen against my side. For being so slim, his chest feels rather toned. I feel myself reddening at the thought, the heat of a blush crawling up my neck and I avert my eyes, which land on Sherlock's jaw.

Where did that thought come from!? And wow, has Sherlock's jaw always been so attractive? It is as if it were cut from marble... which would explain those damn cheek bones but... wait what the bloody hell? Why am I thinking this? I AM NOT GAY! 

He glances down at me, but I refuse to meet his eyes, opting instead to pout at being treated like such a child. Which I realize doesn't help my case but I'm aggravated and in pain.

He sets me down on the couch, gently placing me on the cushion with ease. I frown at him and he rolls his eyes and says, "Stay put, and do not move."

"It's not like I have anywhere to be besides the liquor store." I retort, confused when he looks upset by my words.

"If you didn't frequent it so often you wouldn't have dropped the drink that you shouldn't have been having this early in the morning anyways." He shoots back a beat late and walks towards the kitchen, I assume to get something to clean the shards of glass.

"Yeah well, I wouldn't drink so much if you would have told me you were alive sooner. It was supposed to drown out the pain of missing you so much..." I trail off quietly, unsure why I just said that out loud.

Sherlock froze for a moment, glancing at me before turning away and mumbling a soft, "I'm sorry."

...Did I just hear that correctly? Sherlock APOLOGIZED?!

I'm too shocked to form a correct response so I just lay on the sofa quietly. Sherlock grabs a towel, dust pan, and broom then carefully treads over the source of broken glass. He wipes off the small amount of alcohol left in the cup when I dropped it, and scoops the bigger pieces of glass onto the dust pan. He then uses the wet towel to pick up any smaller pieces of glass I would never see but he wouldn't miss.

He and I are silent as he does this and disposes of the fragments. He grabs the first aid kit we've never opened and walks towards me.

I look at him, really look at him, and can't help but notice he looks different. Yes, he seems to have lost weight but he was practically homeless for several months, and he never seemed to like eating anyways. He shifted slightly under my gaze, and that's when I notice the change.

His eyes.

Still bright, and not unlike the color of the Mediterranean Sea, they have a depth they didn't before. Instead of just scanning the world to perceive data for his mind palace, they were giving information too.

They gave away his emotions.

He seemed so different because he was expressing himself, even if it was unintentional. Before, he always seemed calm, collected, and often bored. His face was always that of unmoved marble, always smooth and unable to betray his facade.

No longer a citadel for his emotions, Sherlock's high and prominent cheek-boned face showed feelings I cannot recall him having before.

Sherlock opens the kit and grabs the tweezers and gauze. I brace myself and bite my tongue as he gently grabs my foot and brings it closer to him so he can see it better. He glances at my face and I feel myself blushing. What the bloody hell? He looks back to my foot and says, "I'm going to get the glass out so be ready it's going to hurt."

I nod and brace myself, biting down on the inside of my cheek as the pain in my foot burns while Sherlock uses the tweezers to pull apart the gash. Blood seeps from my foot and as Sherlock holds my foot steady I grimace in pain. His face is that of complete concentration as he pulls the glass from my foot, and I groan as it rips my skin again. I clench my fist to distract myself from the pain and instead focus on Sherlock. The way his eyebrows draw closer together as he leans towards my foot, scanning for more glass.

I hiss as the pain intensifies when Sherlock wipes away the blood and dabs it with a paper towel soaked in liquid antibiotics to kill any germs that may have been on the glass on floor. He looks again for glass, using his small magnifying glass, and I assume he finds none because he sets it down and rips the gauze into usable sized pieces. I keep myself from shouting in pain as I watch Sherlock carefully wrap the bandage around my foot.

When he secured them, he looked up and his eyes locked with mine. I was too entranced to move and he didn't seem to mind as he held my gaze, probably deducting me to see how much pain I'm in. He leaned in closer, our eyes unblinking, and he face was rather close to mine. Then he smirked and said, "Looks like you're a bit out of practice so I am the doctor now."

I lean back and roll my eyes, "Well I could have done that but you like to show off your skills at any given chance. And I wouldn't have dropped the glass if I hadn't, oh, I don't know, seen someone back from the dead." I grumble and pull leg out of Sherlock's grasp.

"Oh don't be so tenacious, you're glad I'm back. Now, you will have things to do besides sit around drinking and watching soap operas with Mrs. Hudson. Speaking of which, I should call her up here and have her make us tea." He said as if it were a normal morning.

"But you're going to give her a heart attack! You can't just come back one day asking for tea at seven thirty in the morning." I splutter, utterly bewildered that he would assume she would take it lightly.

"Oh don't be daft, you are going to call her up here and mention I'm here. And do not forget to have her get the kettle started before you tell her I am home." He instructs then paces to his room.

I sit there; contemplating before deciding it's better I break the news to her, instead of Sherlock wandering down there asking if he can get a bigger fridge to store body parts for experiments. I sigh and shift on the couch, laying across the entire sofa and gingerly propping my leg up on the arm rest.

After a moment of mental preparation for the scene that's about to start, I shout "Mrs. Hudson could you please come up here?"

I hear her on the steps a moment later, and she seems surprised to see me awake, but then she notices my position on the couch and frantically says, "John, what's happened to your foot? Are you all right?"

I look sheepishly at her before saying, "I dropped my glass and stepped on one of the pieces."

She shakes her head at me and crosses her arms. "John, I thought you cut back on drinking in the morning. Did you need me to clean up the glass or call the paramedics for stitches?"

I hold back a smile, the first time I've come close to smiling in a long time, and say "No, no I've had help cleaning it up already. He also helped me patch up my foot," then remembering what Sherlock said about the tea I hastily add, "And would you start the kettle I think I need some tea to calm down after my foot being cut open." It was a lame excuse considering I've been to war and done without tea but I promised Sherlock I'd ask about it.

She ignores my request for tea and instead focuses on the 'he.' She grins and says "Oh did you have someone come over? Who is he? Is he nice?"

I have to resist rolling my eyes, why does she seem so sure I am gay? I am not! I look at her and say, "Actually you already know him, you haven't seen him for a while but I'm sure he would appreciate you making tea even though you are not our housekeeper."

She looks confused, processing my words, before saying, "John are you drunk? You haven't spoken about Sherlock in ages, let alone think he is here. Maybe I should phone the hospital-"

"That won't be necessary Mrs. Hudson but John was quite right, I would enjoy a cup of tea at the moment," Sherlock said, stepping from his room dressed in his usual black dress pants and a nice shirt. His purple shirt, it does look good on him.

Mrs. Hudson freezes and turns around, standing there with the perfect deer-in-the-headlights expression. Her shock is quickly over and she lets out a soft gasp before whispering "Oh Sherlock." I nearly laugh as she launches herself at him, grabbing him in a hug as he tries to keep from falling over and looks very uncomfortable with the woman clinging to him.

He looks to me with 'Help me' clear as day painted across his face but I just smile and shake my head. He pats her back awkwardly due to height difference and the fact his arms are pinned to his sides as her arms encircle him. She lets go and steps back and looks between us smiling. She turns to me and winks before saying "I will make you tea just this once, but Sherlock if you can escape the grave you can boil water to make tea."

I thank her and she responds with her usual "Not your housekeeper," then bustles around the kitchen. I look to Sherlock and chuckle as he straightens out his shirt and looks at me, distress fading from his face as he regains his composure and ignoring the hug that just happened.

He walks over to his chair and plops down on it ungracefully. I try to stop laughing but it's difficult because every time I've almost calm his shocked face as Mrs. Hudson hugged him flashes through my mind and I chortle again. Sherlock glances at me, and instead of silently telling me to be quiet, he seems to be happy that I'm laughing. Confused, I try and decode what he is thinking but I give up, not having a clue and clear my throat as Mrs. Hudson comes back into the room.

She smiles at me and comments, "It's so nice to see you smiling again John. I haven't seen you do so since... well that's over now and Sherlock home and back in his chair. I have to go, I have some laundry I left out so enjoy your tea I'll be back up later." She said then exited the room, pausing in the door way to look between Sherlock and I once more.

Silence fills the room, thick and unwelcomed, like an overly friendly neighbor that comes into your home uninvited and doesn't get the message that they should go. I raise my eyebrows and reach for the TV remote, deciding the noise of any talk show host is better than the lack of speech.

Sherlock lifts his head to stare at me for a moment, making me feel strangely conscious of being sprawled out across the couch. He gets up without a word and walks over to me hand out, wordlessly asking for the remote. I give him a look, and hesitantly hand it to him before he changes the channel and suddenly Doctor Who is broadcasting itself on the screen. How did he know I like that show? I've never even watched it while he was around.

He continued to act oddly as he grabbed a blanket and slowly and carefully lifted my legs before sitting beside the arm rest and lacing my feet in his lap. I stare at him, no words being processing in my mind, let alone being able to form words. He raises an eyebrow at me, challenging me to question his actions, then flicks the blanket out and it lands across the couch, covering us.

When I finally have control of my mind again I look at him and ask, "And what are you doing?"

He looks at me as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and perhaps, it is. "The angle to the TV is much more sensible here." I feel disappointed at his answer and for the life of me I couldn't figure out why. Then he adds, "Besides, if I am your doctor due to your idiotic injury, I am going to make sure you rest your foot and don't move and it's easier to do that here instead of there," he states motioning to his chair. I feel myself go pink and nod saying, "Alright then."

The two of us don't say a word as we watch Doctor Who. Sometimes I can feel his gaze on me and I have to keep myself from glancing over to meet those bright eyes. I focus on the show, it's during the tenth doctor, the episode "Family of Blood." I can help but think of Sherlock when 'John Smith' doesn't want to open the pocket watch and says, "You're this Doctor's companion. Can't you help? What exactly do you do for him? Why does he need you?" and Martha replies, "Because he's lonely." I dare a quick glance at Sherlock, but instead of looking at me he is staring at the screen.

I am lost in thought for a bit, comparing Sherlock to the Doctor and seeing all the ways in which they are not alike, and the ways in which they resemble each other. I've noticed Sherlock seems to carry a past with him he doesn't want to remember, but can't forget. He is also brilliantly intelligent and more or less uses it to save people. And, he is lonely. I've heard him in the middle of the night when he can't sleep and he is playing the violin. Most of the time, the notes dance after each other, calling to each other to share their sad tales. Their shouts into the oblivion are lost in the void, and will die when the bow stops running across the strings. I have listened, on so many nights when he thinks I am sleeping, and I could almost hear the stories Sherlock is composing as the notes call after each other. Every time, though in different tunes, the same story is being told; often the songs are different chapters of the book, but the same story. His story.

I snap out of my trance to hear the young boy telling 'John Smith' about the Doctor. "Because I've seen him. He's like fire and ice and rage. He's like the night and the storm and the heart of the sun." Then, the human version of the Doctor whispers "Stop it." Latimer, the boy, continues, "He's ancient and forever. He burns at the center of time and he can see the turn of the Universe." 'John Smith' shouts at him now, anguish dominating his features, "Stop it! Just stop it!" But the boy has one last thing to say about the Doctor, "And... he's wonderful." 

I can easily relate that quote to Sherlock. He is a handful, no doubt, but he has a gift that is also a burden. He's been called a freak and he can have a temper to get his way. He is flawed, but it makes him the man he is. He is wonderful, and I would not want him to be any other way then who he is now. My lips twitch into a small smile at the thought, and out of the corner of my eye I see Sherlock glance over at the movement. I just continue to watch the show, and at around ten I feel myself drifting off, my hangover demanding sleep so it may leave.

While John is asleep, he will never know that Sherlock stopped watching the TV to study his flat mate. He looked at John with a fond smile on his face until he too felt tired and curled up, being cautious of John's foot and fell asleep as well. Mrs. Hudson came back up at around noon, only to find the two men under the same blanket, on the same couch, looking peaceful and content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Did you notice all of my references to other fandoms? I loved sneaking those in there.


	4. Chapter Four

I want so much to open your eyes  
'Cause I need you to look into mine

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

Sherlock's POV 

I wake before John, again, and see it's nearly two in the afternoon. I turn off the TV and carefully set John's injured foot on the arm rest of the sofa as I stand. I walk into the kitchen and sigh when I see there isn't much food to cook, not that I can make much regarding, so I decide on take out. I hope John still likes Chinese.

When the food gets here twenty three minutes and forty eight seconds later I bring it up the stairs and set it on the coffee table to go get forks and plates. I scan the room and pause when I see a 22 Caliber Rifle on the counter. I grab the utensils and plates, the gun pushed back in my mind for now. When I walk back out of the kitchen I see John sitting up on the couch rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"I ordered take out. Is Chinese fine?" I ask, unsure why I was so concerned he wouldn't like the food. Perhaps it is because he has lost so much weight and is looking rather thin.

He blinks to adjust to the light and I find myself raising my eyebrows as I think it is amusing. John gives me a strange look, presumably from my expression, before replying, "That's  
just fine, thanks." He shuffles over so he takes up a smaller portion of the sofa and is closer to the coffee table.

I nod and take the spot to the left of him and grab the carton, I hadn't really been intent on using a plate, and eat my beef and broccoli in silence. I notice a small smile on John's lips as he finds I got him orange chicken and steamed rice.

"What are you smiling at?" I ask, quickly scanning to room and situation and finding nothing unusually amusing.

"I - it's nothing it's just, you remembered." He said gesturing vaguely to his meal embarrassed. What for? I wonder searching him and finding nothing.

I look down at my food, swallowing what I was chewing before speaking. "I remember everything John," reminding him though I highly doubt he forgot.

He hummed in agreement while eating some of his orange chicken. We eat the rest of the meal without another word. The silence, though not entirely awkward, was heavy and was we were both highly aware of the quiet room.

When we were finished with the meal, the dishes were put back in the cupboard because we didn't use them. Just like we used to, maybe it hasn't changed too much after all. 

I sat in my chair, he in his, and I was wondering if Mrs. Hudson would be coming up again today when John's hand flexes and his fingers curl; his signature signal for when he is stressed.

As we sit, I wonder if I should ask or wait for him to speak, my people skills are rusty, then again they were never pristine and John has always been a bit of a challenge for me. If he is thinking I shouldn't interrupt, he did the same for me when I would go into my Mind Palace, so I shall wait. He will tell me soon enough. His eyebrows draw together as he thinks and I find myself staring at him as he ponders.

"Do you really have to keep staring at me?" He said suddenly giving me that pointed look where the corners of his mouth drawn down and his eyebrows go up.

"I don't have to but I do not see a reason why I shouldn't" I retort smirking at him and smiling when he dropped his head in his hands out of frustration. He sits there, unmoving, for several minutes more before getting up and going to the kitchen. He limps, trying not to use his injured foot, and I feel compelled to help him walk. My eyebrows drew together and I frown as he comes back with a drink in his hand.

"I know what you're going to say and I don't want to hear it," he cut me off as I was opening my mouth to state my disapproval. I close my mouth and sigh, drawing my legs in crisscross style, and press my hands into a steeple under my chin.

Second hard drink sense I've gotten here

Tolerance

Alcoholic

"John you really shouldn't d-"

"I don't care."

I clench my jaw, biting back my response. How can he not care? He downs his drink and rubs his temples. I watch his movements and note that the tremor in his left hand is back. My shoulders drop at the thought. Logically this means his limp is back as well, this paired with his foot is bound to make walking extremely difficult. I could always carry him where he needs to go. My eyebrows rise at this ridiculous thought, which would be highly inefficient.

I glance at the clock to see that it is late afternoon now, no point in sitting here doing nothing. I grab my coat and scarf, secretly glad John left them by the door. I ignore his gaze as I stride into the kitchen where I had seen the 22 earlier and grab the gun, surprised to find it loaded.

Loaded: four bullets

Recently picked up

Empty bottles: scotch, rum, scotch, scotch, brandy

Facing the fridge

I turn to the fridge and hesitantly open it, expecting what I see inside, but frustrated nonetheless. More alcohol, mostly scotch. I silently sigh and close the fridge again. I walk back into the living room, finding John curled up on the couch staring at the empty glass in his hands. He doesn't acknowledge my departure and I close the door behind me and hurry down the stairs.

I tell Mrs. Hudson I will be back soon and step outside, walking until I turn down an alley near an abandoned building. I fire the gun into the air a few times, and lean against the wall, waiting. Moments later police sirens are screaming and I see flashing lights pass by. I walk to where they stopped and as I estimated, Lestrade arrives with Donavan. They look around, asking people if they saw the shooter, and I see Lestrade excuse himself, and head into a dark alley. I cut between buildings and I as arrive to where he is, I see him lighting a cigarette.

"Those things will kill you," I say as I step from the shadows.

He pauses, cigarette smoking, and then turns to me eyes wide. He smiles and shakes his head slightly, "Oh, you bastard!"

I walk towards him, "It's time to come back. You've been letting things slip, Graham." I say the first name starting with a G that comes to mind, knowing he doesn't really mind because he know I remember his name and I do it on purpose.

"Greg!" He says firmly, but he is angry.

"Greg." I say nodding at him.

He stares at me for a moment before pulling me into a tight hug, his arms around my neck. I grimace because I'm still sore from being held hostage in Serbia. I let him hug me and after a moment he pulls back and see's my face. He raises an eyebrow and steps back.

"Really? You can't handle one hug without making that sour face?"

I roll my eyes and retort, "Don't be stupid I can handle a hug. Being tortured then brought to London within the last forty-eight hours is a bit more of a reason to be 'making a face.'"

"Oh my god, are you alright? What happened?" He asks, concerned and I almost feel guilty that he feels bad.

"Nothing I can't handle," I say in what I thought was an assuring voice; "Now that I'm back I can pick up the slack. Any cases your team can't solve?"

He relaxes and tells me about a series of murders as we walk to 221B.

~*~*~*~

"So far all of them were poisoned, by mercury cyanide. Strange right? Oh and there were marks behind each victims' left ear. Like a signature." Lestrade explained as we walked up the stairs.

"Do you think-" He stops short as we see John.

Sitting next to him is an empty bottle that was full of scotch an hour ago. John was laying on the couch, a blanket haphazardly hanging from the couch, as if he was wrapped in it but got too warm and tried to push it away. What stopped us in the doorway was the high pitched giggle erupting from his lips. He turned and saw us and guffawed even louder.

"What's he laughing at?" Lestrade turns to me confused. I nod towards the empty bottle of alcohol and realization dawns on him.

"He's smashed? But he doesn't handle alcohol very well," Lestrade pointed out and I just gesture to John who is picking at the bandage on his foot.

"He had a rough time after... he had a stressful day." I walk over to John and grab his arm, checking his bandage and telling him to sit still. He complies, and reaches for his glass, finding it empty he reaches for the bottle and frowns when he sees it's empty as well. He sets them both down and flops down on the couch and starts humming.

I raise my eyebrows at Lestrade. "I have never seen him like this, he won't remember any of this tomorrow. What happened to his foot?" He asked amused at John's actions.

"He stepped on glass. Now, about that case it seems like-" I was cut off as Mrs. Hudson walked into the room.

"Oh, hello Greg, how have you been?"

"I've been fine thanks, had a few tough cases at the Yard" he says to her then glancing at John who was no longer humming.

"Sherlock I came up here to tell you... Is John drunk? Again?" She stopped mid-thought and put a hand to her mouth.

I nod and she 'tsks' while shaking her head slightly. "I'll tell you he hasn't been sober for two days straight ever since the funeral. It's so sad seeing him like this. Some days he didn't even know I was there he would he stare at the wall. He's been so depressed he hasn't done much of anything. I'm not sure how he pays rent I don't think he has a job," she rambles and I frown at the news.

Raging alcoholic

Highly depressed

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson talk while I stand there staring at the empty bottle before anger surges through me and I snatch it off the table and throw it into the trashcan, starling Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade raises his eyebrows at me, unsure why I did that.

"Neighbors!" Mrs. Hudson reminds me.

I breathe deeply before turning to them clasping my hands together and saying animatedly, "Didn't want it there. What were you asking about the case Garth?"

Greg rolls his eyes and says, "You would think you could get my name right if you can come back from the dead. I was asking if you think the victims were chosen at random or if there is a connection." He crosses his arms and shifts on his feet. Mrs. Hudson excuses herself and leaves, probably to go to sleep, it's gotten late.

Half smoked pack of cigarettes in his pocket: habit recently renewed

Hasn't slept in over thirty hours

In a relationship

"No, none of them lived near each other, they all worked in different fields, no similarities in appearance, unless they all knew the killer. Unlikely. The killer seems to be highly organized, he laid all the victims in the same position and left the mark in the same exact spot behind the left ear." I list things and eliminate possibilities as I picture each crime scene.

"He?" Lestrade questions. He still doubts me, how absurd.

"Obviously. But why those victims?" I close my eyes and press my fingers to my temples.

Suddenly John speaks up, "Hey izz Greg! Sh-sherlock look izz Greg from the back yard place!" He slurs his way through the sentence, waving at Lestrade as he is just noticing him.

Lestrade chuckles and shakes his head, and looks at me expectantly. I review all of the information, looking for a connection when I gasp.

"Oh that is brilliant!" I exclaim and throw my hands up as I pace.

"What? What is it?" Greg asks then yawns.

"The killer in obsessed with alchemy! The symbol behind their ears is one of the symbols for silver alchemist used. You said the poison was mercury cyanide? Not quite true alchemy, but it works quickly in most cases. As for the way he laid the victims down it must be how the first victim fell, and his compulsive need for order and exact repetition is the result. Now, we are looking for someone who has bought a lot of alchemy books, works in the field of science, and has access to mercury cyanide," I ramble, the thrill of piecing together a case once again giving me an adrenaline rush.

"Well I'll be da-" Lestrade starts but John cuts him off.

"Alc-alchemy? You mean the lead into gold sorta thing riiightttt? Like ssssorcerers?" John's speech is slow and he's having trouble pronouncing the words that are tumbling from his mouth. Lestrade raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth to continue what he was saying but yet again John cuts him off.

"I AM THE HOBBIT!" John shouts, flinging the discarded blanket onto his shoulders like a crumpled cape. He starts mumbling about dragons and if he could use alchemy to tame the beast. I have no clue what he's rambling on about, but Lestrade is chuckling so it must mean something somewhere.

"He must be a Lord of the Rings fan. I can see him being the Hobbit, granted he has a bit of a temper. Not right now thought, I mean, look at him!" Greg gestured to John who now had the blanket pulled up over his head like a hood, still rambling about some adventure involving treasure and if it was once lead before it was gold.

It's nearly impossible to go to my Mind Palace with John talking incessantly so I walk over to him and sit him down, he was standing precariously on his chair and he didn't need to further injure his foot. He scrunched his face at me, frowning before mumbling, "Don't be Smaug you purple shirt wearing treasure hoarder." John glared at me as I stood there unsure what to say to him. I don't understand that reference.

Lestrade lost it at this point and was bent over laughing, clutching the wall for support. His laughter was starting to die down when he saw my eyebrows drawn together and John turning his chin up to me and facing away. I stand, not sure how to respond to Greg's fits of laughter. Six minutes and thirty-seven seconds pass with my silence and his snickers until he lets go of the wall and wipes tears from his eyes. He takes a deep breath and rubs a hand over his face, glancing at me.

"He's not so bad right now is he? Although I must say I wouldn't want to see him angry with that much alcohol in him. But thanks for the help on the case and if we find any suspects we will let you know. I ought to be heading back to the Yard to tell them about your theory." Lestrade smiles, gratitude clear on his face.

"If you don't mind, I would rather you don't tell them I'm back yet. I'm still supposed to be dead." I point out; smirking when I think of all the ways I can scare Donavan and Anderson.

"No, no it's fine I understand. Thanks again for the help, and I'm glad to have you back," with a wave he steps out of the flat, closing the door behind him, shaking his head at John one last time.

I take the gun out of my pocket and set it on the table, making sure the safety is on. I hang my coat up and take off my scarf, turning around to see John staring intently at me. I stare back and sit in my chair facing him, not bothered by the extended eye contact. His hand clenches again and I wonder if now he is going to tell me what was bothering him earlier, after all drunk people have more to say.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

He seems completely void of emotion as he asks, "Why wait? All those weeks, all those months without a word. Why?"

I had expected this question at some point, but I knew he wouldn't like my answer, "I knew what I was going to face when I went up to the roof. Moriarty was going to threaten me while I was convinced he had the code. He told me he had gunmen waiting to kill the only people I care about if I didn't commit suicide to complete his story. Knowing he was going to deceive me I had Mycroft set up several plans in the event of a problem. So I jumped and landed on an air mat while you were being knocked down by our bicyclist. Excuse that, it was essential. After you saw me 'die' the gunmen no longer had to kill you so you had to believe I was dead until there was no threat. I was unable to contact you. I was taking down Moriarty's network then incarcerated in Serbia. Not many people knew I was alive, it was a very elaborate plan." I explain, carefully studying his face, not surprised when he looked angry.

Clenched Jaw

Still heavily intoxicated

"Who knew?"

"Molly, Mycroft, and the people who help stage the fall then get me out of the country." I state, trying to convince him it was completely necessary he didn't know I was alive.

Liar

Scared

Don't try to convince yourself of false things.

He stands up, voice rising, "All of them knew? They could all sleep at night but you couldn't put for the effort to give me a single word?!" He walks towards me and I stand too, hands out trying to calm him.

"John I-"

"No! You listen to me," he takes an unsteady step forward poked me in the chest. I step backwards, but not far in case he falls due to his foot or intoxication.

"You. Didn't. Even. Try. To. Tell. Me. You. Were. Alive." John's finger poking my chest with every word. He keeps stumbling towards me and I shuffle backwards.

"I can't sleep without seeing your damn face and feeling guilty. I am angry. I'm mad that you didn't care enough to give me that information while you threw it around to complete strangers. I am furious," my back hits the wall and he keeps limping forward, "that I let myself be so damn wrecked over you. Why does your face haunt my dreams when I am my own worst nightmare? Why do I let myself taint your image even as I sleep, because I am so goddamn lonely that I have to see you die over and over every night? It just makes it worse. Not getting over it, staying in this rut because I have gotten so used to you that I need you in my nightmares." His hands grasp me, holding me to the wall, and he leans in, no longer shouting.

He is inches from me now, breathing unsteadily in his rage, "I take it back. The only thing worse than hating myself, for this, is hating you. That is the worst thing I have ever done. Placing my blame on you, and keeping you here with my misery. I am so sorry."

And then his eyes soften and he gazes into mine for a lingering moment before he collapses onto me. "I-I am so s-sorry Sherlock, s-so sorry," He sobs into my neck, clutching me like I am his life support. I place my hands on his sides to hold his weight, as in his distraught and drunken state, he is slumped against me and would fall if I weren't propping him up.

"Shh, John, it's okay. I did this," I whisper in his ear as tears roll from his eye and onto my shirt, leaving dark spots on the purple.

Unable to walk

Self loathing

Guilt

Pain in foot

I sigh, realizing what I had to do. I shift my arms and bend my legs, scooping John against my chest for the second time that day. His arms instinctively wrap around my neck as he sniffs and mutters 'I'm sorry's. I glance at the stairs, knowing I won't make it as my wounds from Serbia are very sore and the longer I hold John against my chest the more inflamed they get.

He wouldn't sleep well on the couch so I walk as quickly as I can to my room and lay him on the bed. Tears still fall from John's eyes but he is quiet now, staring at me sadly. I know he wouldn't be comfortable sleeping in those clothes but he also wouldn't appreciate me undressing him.

"John, you need to sleep. Can you undress on your own?" I say softly, not wanting him to have another emotional outburst. He just nods and wipes at his tears before giving me a look. I roll my eyes and turn around and when I hear him struggling to get under the covers I turn around and pull up the sheets for him. He avoids my eyes and curls in on himself, seeming very small and defenseless. I glance at the clothes on the floor before deciding to put them in his room, but my movement is stopped by a hand on my wrist. I look down my arm to see John grasping me gently and looking at me with pleading eyes.

"Stay," he whispers, looking broken and defeated.

"Of, course," I reply. I quickly strip down to my boxers and slide under the sheets, not caring what he will say in the morning. I turn my back to him, hoping it would relieve his stress in the morning.

I am nearly asleep when I heard it. I almost miss it, and had he not been in here and crying minutes ago I would have thought I imagined it. But there was no mistaking the hushed, "Thank you."


	5. Chapter Five

Tell me that you'll open your eyes (x4)

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

John's POV

I was running through abandoned streets, a voice calling me in anguish. I had to find the speaker, it just seemed right. The voice whispered through the empty buildings, lamenting my name, as if speaking were painful. I limp between alleys, cautious of the shattered glass and trash littering the pavement. I look around and see no one, the scene like something from a post-apocalyptic city. The voice, distant yet all around, beckons me again with its familiar sound.

I run until I stop at Bart's Hospital, cringing as I see its crumbling walls. It looks different, like vines had once grown up the walls but died and left dark lines where they were. A fire escape was attached to the front of it, stolen from other vacant buildings. The metal stairs look old, unstable, and a unreliable trick in time of need.

The speaker calls out again, the familiarity of it bothering me that I can't place it, "John, John look up. Look at me John."

I look up, seeing no one in the broken windows, then glance at the rooftop. Shivers run through me when I see a dark figure standing by the ledge. It doesn't have a distinct shape, more like black smoke huddled in one spot, roughly in the outline of a man. Its voice fills my ears again, goose bumps appearing on my arms from the eerie chant.

"I'm dying John, can't you tell?

I'm going down to shake hands in hell.

I'm going to jump, don't you see?

I'm going to fall will you catch me?"

I shake my head; the chant continued hissing in my ears, taunting me as the figure steps onto the edge. The voice, I still can't place it because it sounds so inhuman, echoes in my mind because there is no way I would have heard it several blocks over even with no one else here.

"Don't," I say, craning my neck to see the only other live thing for miles. I didn't want to be alone again.

"Goodbye, John."

I gasp as the voice no longer sounds as if it belonged to something unnatural, it was clear now, and it belonged to Sherlock. The black mist disappeared, like steam or smoke from a chimney. It just faded into the air, leaving me alone again.

I shout in frustration, the sound of anguish echoing off the empty buildings. I start running, as best as I can with the limp in my leg back. I dodge falling bricks as the buildings crumble now and again. Cutting through an alley I realize I'm near the London Eye. No one is around, the city looked as though it had been attacked and everyone left. I slow down when I near the giant Ferris wheel, stopping in my tracks when I see it still spinning.

I trudge over to where the operator should be, but the stand is empty. I look at the boxes where people sit and no one is there. The wheel just keeps spinning, soundlessly and vast. I look up at it, and across the river, no boats are drifting up or down, and I see no one on the other side.

Alone again.

I feel empty inside, knowing no one cared to evacuate me from the destruction of the city. I was left to die, of starvation, of dehydration, to go mad in my solitude.   
I clench my fist, going into solider mode, knowing it's the only way I'll live long enough to be rescued or to find help.

I quickly survey the area around the London Eye, my gaze lingering a bit too long on the dark water of the Thames. Shaking my head, I clear my thoughts and decide to head away from the Ferris wheel in search of clean water and in hopes I'll find someone.

I check the first store that looks stable enough to enter and kick the door in, gritting my teeth at the pain in my leg. I find it already ransacked, the room having been a retail shop the ripped cloth lying in fragments on the floor and over racks and broken shelves. I brush dust from my head that had fallen on me when I entered and decide nothing is here. I leave, frowning and confused. What happened to London?

I rule out terrorist attack, surely there would still be someone... anyone. My mind entertains the thought of the end of the world, but it seems so irrational I scoff and decide to not watch The Walking Dead when, if, I get out of this.

I tell myself a reasonable excuse for the ruins would be that war had broken out and London was evacuated. Though, by the looks of these buildings they haven't seen people in years. 

I shudder at the thought of surviving alone, days weeks and years of no one to talk to, no one to argue with and no one to hold. To live a dreary life alone, and die with no one around to miss me.

Sighing, I walk down another street, noticing the lack of cars and almost smiling when I picture Sherlock scolding me for not being observant enough. The buildings around me rumble, and start collapsing one by one, I start running but the falling debris is right behind me.

Bricks hit me and I trip, the glass from broken windows cutting my hands as I brace myself to hit the ground. The buildings shake the ground in their effort to bury me alive. Shoving plaster and wooden planks off of me, I try to scramble on top of the growing pile of broken walls.

The world kept collapsing on top of me and I reached my hand out blindly, dust stirring up into my eyes. Coughing, I give up hope and my hand goes slack as I am buried alive by the ruined city I once prowled with my best friend.

~*~*~*~

I bolt awake, nearly jumping out of my skin when an arm slips from my waist and flops back to my side. Sighing in relief when I see it had just been Sherlock laying his arm around me. Shaking, I put my head in my hands, focusing on my breathing so that I don't puke, or wake up Sherlock. I check to make sure the bin is still by the bed and thank god it is there. Closing my eyes, and pressing my fingers to my head, I try to forget the feeling of being trapped under ruble. A few minutes later I'm still trembling, wishing I could go get a drink but it would probably disturb Sherlock and he isn't his happiest in the morning.

Wait a minute.

Sherlock?

I whip my head around, wincing at my neck, and my eye nearly pop out of my head to see him laid out on his stomach, his hand still positioned as if it were reaching towards me. I look away, staring at my lap.

Why am I in his room? The last thing I remember is him leaving and drinking that bottle of- oh god.

Oh my god.

I shuffle with the sheets, not caring if I wake him up, and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when I see we both have clothes on. My eyebrows rise a bit when I note he only has underwear on. I, at least, have an undershirt and pants on, though I spot my jacket, button up shirt, and socks on the floor.

I chuckle quietly to myself, how absurd I was for thinking Sherlock and I had slept together. He's not even attracted to people and I, I am not gay!

I look at Sherlock's sleeping figure one last time, blushing at his shirtless torso. Telling myself it's because of my headache and queasy stomach I lay back down. My breath catches in my throat as his hand glides over my hip and he pulls me closer. He mumbles something indistinguishable in his sleep and wraps his arm protectively around my torso. I stiffen, unsure if I should move his arm or leave it, hoping in the morning it's not awkward in my case because it's HIS arm around me and not the other way around.

My answer is apparent when I start to move he tightens his grip and another string of incoherent words tumble into the pillow. Sherlock pulls me to his side and his fingers curl into my shirt. I huff and close my eyes, nudging my head into the pillow in attempt to find a more comfortable position. In all honesty, I missed having someone to lie next to at night; however, Sherlock would not have been the first person to mind.

When my mid stops reeling and I don't feel sick from the dream I relax and let myself sleep, hoping another nightmare doesn't plague me as I'm alone in my mind.

~*~*~*~

"John?"

"John are you alright?" a stressed voice calls to me but I can't escape my nightmare to answer.

"John wake up!" the voice demands, flustered.

I continue to toss and turn, thrashing in my unconscious state. I feel a weight on me, pinning me to the mattress as I try to catch Sherlock as he falls from the air towards the pavement.

"John!"

I wake from a nightmare, eyes wide and arms flailing to focus on Sherlock. He has his hands on my shoulders, presumably from holding me down so I don't hurt myself or him. I also become highly aware that he is sitting on me.

Sherlock is straddling me.

On a bed.

On HIS bed, which I spent the night in.

My face burns as calm down, trying not to think about the torturous images I just saw.

"Are you alright? John answer me," Sherlock demands, seeming to think nothing of sitting on me.

I shake my head and bring my hands to my face, partially to hide my red cheeks, and also because I'm trying to calm down. I wait a moment but Sherlock doesn't get the hint so I have to tell him.

"Were you planning on sitting on me the whole day?" I ask through my hands.

I hear the rustle of the sheets and the weight on me is gone. I breathe deeply, trying to focus on just that and nothing else.

After a few moments he breaks the silence, "John, are you okay?"

"M'fine," I mutter and curl into a ball on my side, facing away from Sherlock.

He pauses for a moment, unsure, then places a hand on my shoulder and gently rubs near my neck. It would be a nice gesture except his attempt to calm me only reminds me of how I failed again to save him. I feel tears pricking at my shut eye lids and stiffen when I feel Sherlock move beside me. I refuse to move, embarrassed and ashamed.

I heard him sigh before his arm wraps underneath me and he pulls me into a sitting position. He leans me against his side and moves his arm around my shoulders, the other hugging his knees as they are tucked to his chest like mine.

I sit like a rock, unmoving and tense. I don't push him away but I don't relax into his side. He seems to understand because he is silent and I feel his gaze on me. He's probably trying to figure out what's wrong. Knowing him, he has remembered what I let slip yesterday. I wonder what I did after drinking, honestly I remember nothing and I have the feeling something happened.

"Do you need to, to talk about it?" Sherlock asks and I wonder why he's being so unusual.

I shake my head, but allow myself to lean a bit of my weight against him. He doesn't move but I can tell he wasn't expecting that and I nearly smile despite myself.

When I'm sure my face isn't pink with embarrassment, and I don't feel the need to break down cry like a little kid, I lift my head from my hands and tuck my arms around my legs. I lean my head back against his arm, and though I know he is staring at me I don't look at him. Focusing on the ceiling brings me no comfort but it is the only thing to do besides closing my eyes again or meeting Sherlock's eyes.

I can tell he is about to speak again, so I beat him to it, "Sherlock really it's nothing just a bad dream."

I brave a glance at him and he doesn't seem convinced, what worries me though is how close we are, and I have to keep my breath steady so he doesn't worry more. His eyebrows are drawn towards each other, forming small wrinkles in his forehead. He doesn't frown but I can tell he is upset and I feel the need to cheer him up.

"John," he sighs, seeing right through me. I ignore him as I grow very paranoid of the things I can't remember from yesterday.

"Erm, Sherlock, did I," my throat rumbles as I clear it, "Did I do anything strange yesterday? I don't remember anything," I ask, slightly panicked when his eyebrows rise at my question.

Oh god.

"Well when I came back Lestrade was with me, we were talking about a case, and you had finished the entire bottle of scotch, which is terrible for you by the way. At first you were quiet but then you started rambling about a Hobbit and someone named Smaug? Not sure where your mind was then, John. Then Lestrade left for the Yard and you yelled at me and had a bit of a fit. After that you were unable to walk so I brought you in here because it was easier," he listed off everything, leaving me with one question.

"And why did you stay in here?" I ask, curious and I still don't understand.

He smirks, "Obvious. I didn't want to sleep in your room, and I would not sleep well on the couch. It was also smart for me to stay in here because you were having a nightmare."

I nod and remember our sides are pressed together. I whip my head around to face him and freeze when I see his face is mere centimeters away. Our eyes connect, and for some reason unknown to me, my heart speeds up and I have to remind myself to breathe. Sherlock seems unfazed and stares at me, no doubt thinking something is wrong because he grabs my wrist to take my pulse. A minute later he frowns, squinting his eyes in search of who knows what. I feel highly self-conscious, being scrutinized by Sherlock with our faces so close and him half naked.

I clear my throat, "Perhaps we should, eh..."

"Of course," he replies and leans away from me while bounding from the bed in one swift motion.

"Your pulse is still rather high so I will make tea while you sit," he instructs and helps me stand. My face scrunches up in pain and I grit my teeth, having forgotten I cut my foot yesterday. Sherlock notices, always, and his nose crinkles. He makes a decision, I can see it in his eyes, and my head draws back in confusion when he turns around and crouches a bit.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" I ask placing on hand on the mattress for support.

He makes an exasperated noise and huffs, "I'm helping. Now get on my back so you don't have to walk on your foot. I'll change the bandage when the tea is boiling."

I hesitate, why is he so helpful all of the sudden? Sighing, I try placing weight on the foot, preferring to walk if it isn't too bad. I nearly curse when the pain sharpens and resign myself to a piggyback ride from Sherlock. What has my life become?

I awkwardly clamber onto his back; I've never been given one before so I assume I'm holding on correctly when he doesn't seem to put much effort into lifting me and pacing from the room. Remembering he has no shirt, and only underwear on, I feel my face burn red as I bite my lip. Oh god this is embarrassing, must be why I'm blushing so much. Why did I have to drop that glass?

He has no trouble walking me to the couch and I laugh when he goes back to the room, only to reemerge bundled in a sheet. He rolls his eyes at my amusement and I stifle my giggles when I hear him settling a kettle on the stove. I am almost calm when I remember Buckingham Palace and I snort, enable to stop the cackle rising up my throat. Sherlock appears in the doorway, staring at me for an explanation and that only makes me laugh more. I wipe tears forming in my eyes and I shake my head at Sherlock who scowls and returns to the tea.

A moment later he appears with the tray, and hands me a cup, no sugar. I wait for it to cool and shiver, wishing I had one of my sweaters on. Sherlock, sitting on the other end of the couch, notices my shiver and fumbles with the sheet for a second before his arm is extended and the sheet drapes from his arm. A silent invitation to sit next to him and share the warmth the sheet provides. Though I imagine, with a thin sheet like that, the warmth is mostly from Sherlock.

I debate, shivering and being cold or sitting so close and almost... intimately? As chills run through me I give in and scoot over, hip-to- hip with the dark curly haired man. He drapes his arm over my shoulders, bringing the sheet around to cover both of us. Never thought this would be happening, damn I need a drink.

I sigh as we sit in silence, sipping our tea, though mine tastes off, having only drank water and alcohol the past few months. Sherlock says nothing, and seems quite relaxed, given the situation. I am still tense, unable to stop seeing him die, over and over again. In so many ways, and each time it hurt just as much, if not more. It doesn't get easier, the pain of hope being torn from me repeatedly is ripping deeper than I thought anything ever would. I hate looking in the mirror, I hate what I see, because I am this pathetic, drunken man who doesn't want to admit he is alone in the world. Instead I dream of my best friend, reliving his death every night just so I can feel like he was here, only to have him taken from grasp again.

I hate being alone, I even thanked Sherlock at his grave for being company. But after he left, it was just me. I miss the war because I had people to look out for; people to look out for me. Like brothers, friends, family. Mycroft was right when he said I missed it, but neither he nor his little brother next to me would ever figure out why. I close my eyes, willing the tears forming to just go away. When did I become such a baby?

Sherlock notices, and takes my tea, setting both of ours on the coffee table. He shushes me and my lips tremble as I breathe in gasps and stutters. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his bare chest but at this point I don't care. The sheet tightens around us as if trying to comfort me by being snug. Silent tears fall from my eyes, and Sherlock says nothing as they hit his torso. He just holds the back of my neck and rubs my lower back with his other hand. He presses my face into his neck and just holds me.

He holds me like I wasn't stopped by abandoned London buildings. He holds me like he defied gravity and flew into the clouds. He rubs my back, as if his wings were not broken, and he didn't lie on the cold pavement. Sherlock grips me tight like he was never gone, like he was never dead and six feet under, six feet further from me. He whispers quiet things and leans his cheek on my hair as if he had done it hundreds of times. He holds me like he cares which I don't mind because for the first time since his death I think he might.

I don't know how long we stayed like that but it was long after breakfast and I am surprised Mrs. Hudson didn't come up the stairs. Though if she had, we had no explanation and I didn't feel like fighting for my sexuality. I let myself relax a bit, a pounding headache throbbing in my skull. I want to drink but I know Sherlock wouldn't get me one, and I don't know if I can walk to the bar where he can't take it from me like in our flat. At the thought of not drinking I nearly lose it again. How am I going to get through each day?

Drowning everything out has been my escape. Drinking until the burn was so intense I couldn't think about anything was my only way of getting through the week. Without alcohol I wasn't sure what to do. I shake without it. I limp without it. I am dependent, and it's another thing to hate when I look at my reflection, but at least when I drink, the image is blurry.

I shudder again, and curl into Sherlock, way past caring, only wanting to block out the world, even Sherlock. We stay this way, him silent and concerned, and I chasing my self-worth down the empty streets in my mind. They stayed empty, no matter how far I went, and crave the edge drinking takes off. I drink alone, because I am alone. Alone is what I have, alone kills me.

The tea grows cold, forgotten and unimportant.


	6. Chapter Six

Get up, get out, get away from these liars  
'Cause they don't get your soul or your fire

Open Your Eye by Snow Patrol

Sherlock's POV

It had been a few days since John and I sat on the couch that morning, and he hasn't improved though he was trying harder to hide the aftermath of his addiction. It was very obvious, however, that he still drank and I began to grow anxious every night. It seemed absurd, but I found myself waiting for him to come home, not having any difficulties staying up until he staggered through the door. Though I would never tell John, it worried me, his lack of self-esteem and his disregard for his health. He wouldn’t listen even if I did.

His foot was still freshly wounded, the cut never fully closing with him walking about London to drink. I wanted nothing other than him to stay home and take care of himself for a few days, and if that was too much to ask I could help. I may not be a good cook but at this point, John's weight loss doesn't have the luxury of five star meals. It would be nice to take him someplace though, he would certainly eat then. There is no time to place reservations; he needs to start consuming something other than alcohol, water, and aspirin.

Sighing, I pace in front of the wall, which was covered in papers I had pinned to it; photos, reports, my own notes about the investigation. I studied the symbols, searching for any reason a sign for silver was carved by their ears. Why the left ear? There were still no connections between the poisoned victims and no leads. It doesn't make sense. 

Just as I was about to play my violin to channel my energy, John shuffled from my room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He had been too drunk to make it to his room last night, and his nightmares have gotten worse from what I've observed. John seems to be too hung-over or drunk to care about sharing the bed, but under any other circumstance I know he would feel the need to defend his sexuality which I find rather unnecessary.

Why should people's thoughts bother him anyways? He is a better man than anyone walking the streets of London, their opinions shouldn't matter.

It does bother me though, that his restless sleep is a never ceasing issue. I don't mind being woken by his tossing and turning, but it is unsettling to see him in so much pain that he gets sick sometimes. On the nights he wakes me up I sit with him until he calms down enough to breathe properly. When he awakes in panic, I never miss his military reflexes, his hand reaching for a gun and his senses on high alert despite his distress. It makes me wonder if he dreams of the war, though when he searches around wild-eyed and finds comfort in my presence I know he is usually if not always, seeing me die.

John trudges to the kitchen without a word, and after downing painkillers he goes upstairs to change and get ready for his job at some clinic. I am unsure how he is able to maintain that job, with the constant headaches and bright lights but it provides a distraction so I am glad.

However, I don't approve of the lady that works with him, Mary. I distrust her because she seems to be hiding a big secret regarding her past and she hides it well because I have yet to figure it out. I’ve only seen her twice and never talked to her so I will figure it out later. Unlike this case that is, quite frankly, stumping me. As unusual and baffling as that is, I like the challenge and find it to be an appropriate welcome home gift.

Staring at the wall once more, eyes flicking between the documents and notes, I frown as nothing clicks. I resign myself to sit down and go to my Mind Palace, something I haven't done since before my fake suicide. It was like walking through a place so familiar that you would know your way around blind folded. I smile, unable to hold it back as I relish in the fact I am able to enter my Mind Palace after such an extended time.

Opening my closed eyes, I walk down the halls, opening doors that lead to rooms which are nowhere near each other in the tangible world. I pause in the foyer of my childhood home, tempted to call Redbeard and play for a bit. I shake the feeling off, and stride up the stairs to find myself at the Yard, an empty office extending beyond me. I turn around to go back but the staircase is gone so I must be here for a reason. I scan all of the desks and find nothing related to the case. Pacing over to Lestrade's office I look through the drawers to find them empty. I move to leave but as I look up I see John standing in the door way.

"Sherlock."

"John."

"Why are you here?" John asks, though I know he doesn't mean at Scotland Yard.

"I am solving the case," I reply, not sure why Mind Palace John is here.

"You know that's not what I'm asking," which is true but for once I don't know what he IS asking, "Why are you sitting on the couch, solving murders while pretending everything is okay?" John says, not angrily but disappointed.

'I'm disappointed in you Sherlock' Moriarty's voice intrudes unwelcome.

I don't have a good answer. I look out the window for a moment and when I turn back he is gone. I walk out of the office and suddenly I'm outside, standing in front of Big Ben. Moriarty is leaning against a lamppost absentmindedly playing with his head phones, so I walk to him.

"Jonny boy didn't stick with you? That's a shame, he really is entertaining," he smiles and sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet.

"Don't talk about him like that." I say curtly, not questioning why he is here. It’s frustrating that people like him and my brother can come and go without my permission. Moriarty starts whistling and walking down the street, clearly expecting me to follow. I push through the crowds and walk in stride next to him. I wait for him to speak, knowing he will.

"It's your fault you know," he looks at me with fake disapproval. "It's your fault he wants to drink himself to death. Understandable though, having to watch you die over and over and over and over a-"

"Stop it," hearing the strain in my voice I stand a bit taller, he smirks and lifts an eyebrow.

"Of course, your return isn't helping either. Now he sees you and he wants to drown the guilt of losing you. He tries to carry on, to forget the road so far. But grim tales have grim endings, Sherlock." Moriarty squints at me, then stops and looks around. I glance away from him to see we are in the hospital. The empty hallways stretch endlessly in each direction, the doors closed to keep the patients in.

He starts singing in a high voice, "One, two, John missed you. Three, four, drink some more. Five, six, John is sick. Seven, eight, almost too late. Nine, ten, say good-bye to him."

I measure Jim's words as he continues his parody, "Eleven, twelve, four bullet shells. Thirteen, fourteen, alone in his dreams. Fifteen, sixteen, hear his screams. Seventeen, eighteen, stop the waiting. Nineteen, twenty, the bowl is empty."

Moriarty sat down and rocked back and forth as he sang off tune with a crooked smile. I tried to ignore him but his words kept ringing through my mind. Was John contemplating suicide?

Loaded gun

Four bullets

Near the alcohol

Highly depressed

Traumatizing nightmares

Tremor and limp back

I frown as I add it up. I highly doubt he would do it sober, but he hasn't been sober very much the last few months. He hasn’t been himself, and it’s because of me. Moriarty leers against the chains, repeating the mantra. I cover my ears, trying to block it out when another noise reaches out for me. I start running, not looking back at the consulting criminal.

I hear him shout, his sarcasm noticeable even from so far away, "Aw you figured it out? Was it something I said?" and shake my head to make him disappear. When I've ran down the hall for several minutes and the end is no closer, I try one of the doors. I am surprised to find it unlocked and rush through the door way. Inside is an empty court room, the only other person present is an old man. I don’t know him, but I’ve surely seen him in London somewhere.

"Hello?" I question.

He doesn't react, as if he doesn't know I'm there, and I keep running as the sound gets louder and my Mind Palace starts to shake. I can hear my name being called but I can't tell where from. The walls and floor shudder and suddenly I'm staring at the ceiling, a hand on my shoulder.

"Sherlock? Are you there? John's at work so I thought we could catch up over tea," Mrs. Hudson said, removing her hand from my shoulder. I blink, ignoring what just happened, having no control over my Mind Palace, and sit up. Mrs. Hudson brings tea over and sits in John's chair. I nod thanks at her and she smiles, leaning in to talk.

"So, Sherlock, are you going to explain why you put John and me through all that? I mean, I had a really hard time but John, he is a complete wreck!" She exclaims, stirring her tea out of habit.

I explain to her the complications that arose, and the reason for faking my death. She gasps and says 'oh dear' several times as I voice the information previously unknown to her. I expected her to cry, so it is no surprise that her eyes water a bit and she sets down her cup to hug me.

"Oh, Sherlock, you really are something I'll tell you. But what would we do without you? Nothing, obviously. Now, do you know why John has taken this as terribly as he has?" Mrs. Hudson asks, once again hinting her suspicion that John and I are in a relationship.

I decide John won't care if I speak for him, knowing he would rather not talk about it himself, "I was there for John after being at war. Then after finding a rhythm in life again, I had to do what had to be done. Surely the psychological effects of both are the result of his behavior, and I do wish he would stop drinking. He knows better, and it makes his nightmares worse."

Mrs. Hudson purses her lips, she knew about the nightmares but not how bad they are. She looks at me expectantly, but I do not tell her John has been sleeping in my bed because I know he wouldn't want me to and it is not crucial for her to know. After seeing I had nothing else to say on the matter she sighs.

"I want to get him help you know."

I wasn't expecting her to say this, but I agree. I nod, frowning as I say, "John is too stubborn to go anywhere. There must be something else to do."

A strange look crosses her face, followed by one of contemplation, and one I couldn't distinguish. It was sly and seemed as though she were planning something involving John and I, but it was gone quickly and she responded with a simple, "There might be."

I was about to ask what, but she gathered the tea cups and put them in the sink and left before I can reason what she meant. Not wanting to go back to my Mind Palace, I grab my violin and tune it. I close my eyes and let the bow run across the strings as my fingers move on instinct. The notes seem to play themselves as I block out the world and anything but the feeling of the violin and the sound. Following each other endlessly, the measures create themselves as the music comes to life at my fingertips. I play to clear my mind, to sharpen my focus and improve my reflexes.

It was timeless, the song born of my sorrow. Molly's voice whispered in my ear 'you look sad when you think he can't see you.' So I play on, the notes a symphony of the days since my return. I am blind to the world, deaf to taunting voices, all I can do is feel the bow as it glides across the strings and my finger shift flawlessly. When I pause, a high note lingering in the air, I open my eyes and with sudden ambition, the bow attacks the strings again. I don't hear the melody fleeing from my instrument; instead I sense it, the sound becoming a physical feeling that leaves me weightless.

When a final note cuts through the air, holding its sound for as long as it can, I stand perfectly still. Looking out the window, I see it is late, and I must have played for hours, unsurprising really. I breathe deeply and slowly lower my arms, not noticing the dull ache from being held up so long. I stare down at the street, watching the people mill by unaware of the nightmares that plague the night.

"That was, amazing! I didn't know you could play, let alone like that," an awed voice exclaims.

I turn, the voice disrupting my reverie. Lestrade stands there dumbstruck in the doorway, file in hand and Molly behind him. Of course, I glance between them; she is the one he is dating. I nod at them in welcome, carefully putting my violin away as they step inside from the hallway. Molly smiles at me and looks around the room.

"I taught myself. Congratulations you two, it's about time you started dating. What have you found regarding the alchemy inspired murders?" I don't linger on the subject of my ability to play violin, and briefly state I've noticed their mutual attraction for one another, at which Molly blushed lightly.

"Oh yes we, you really aren't rusty are you? Even after all those months... Another victim was murdered, and once again we don't see any connection between the victims. The Yard is completely baffled; I figured you would figure it out eventually though." Greg says, smiling at Molly. He handed me the manila envelope which I open and flick between the papers, pausing at the photographs of the most recent killing. A man, dark hair and in his fifties was lying in the same position as the others inside what I assumed to be his house. He had the same symbol for silver behind his left ear and I could see the poison's effects.

"No signs of forced entry, so he probably let the murderer in because he knew him. We are still trying to find someone that all of them know but the families are too distraught to be much help. Any ideas?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"It's a male, likely in his thirties. Have you checked for someone buying books or researching alchemy online excessively? That’s where he got the poisoning idea. He is someone with access to mercury cyanide. That doesn't rule out many people because of black markets, but it would help." I list as possibilities and suggestions appear before me.

"The poison was freshly made, so he is making it himself. Where he is buying the components is the problem." Molly speaks up, entering the conversation for the first time since arriving.

I think again, narrowing down the likely possibilities, about to answer when another person appears in the doorframe. John, who had gotten a few drinks after work but isn't wasted. He waves at Greg and Molly then goes to the kitchen. Molly raises an eyebrow in silent question and I shake my head at her. Seconds later John walks back into the room with a glass of bourbon in his hand. I frown but don't comment, thought Moriarty's voice echoes in my ears, mocking me with his version of the nursery rhyme. John greets them with a hug for each, smiling like nothing is wrong.

"Long time no see, where have you been John?" Lestrade asks cheerfully though I know he is thinking about the last time he was here and John was drunk to the point of nonsense.

"I was at work actually. A clinic, it's a bit less exciting then working cases but it pays. How's the yard?" John asks, having no recollection of seeing Lestrade nearly a week ago. Greg senses this and plays along, not wanting to touch the drinking subject, though he glances at the drink in John’s hands several times.

"It's been fine, should be able to pick things up now that Sherlock's back in London. Right now we are stumped on a series of murders by a wannabe alchemist," he answers and glances as me upon mentioning my return. I catch Molly frowning at the drink in John's hand; no doubt she will ask me about it later.

I notice John shifts, subconsciously leaning on his good foot, and holds the glass in both hands. He seems uncharacteristically insecure and I can't help but compare him to a child clutching a security blanket. He stands there, both hands on the glass to prevent his tremor. A soldier, unaware of his injuries, holding himself together for the sake of his fellow troops to win the battle. Complaining or asking for assistance is the last thing he would do, yet we all know he needs help.

John finishes his drink, but doesn’t set it down, forgetting he’s holding it as he clutches it like a safe hold. Molly, Lestrade, John, and I share small talk for nearly an hour, though I don't contribute much. John was surprised to learn the two had been dating for nearly three months, and I saw the guilt cross his face at having paid such little attention to them in his mourning. They don't mind, instead they give him looks of pity he doesn't catch. As night draws closer, and John's glass remains empty, anger saunters between the rooms of my Mind Palace.

Why?

John, why did my departure render you so broken?

How do you miss your brilliance when you look in the mirror?

It becomes harder to remain composed as the three chat. I try looking at the file again, but I'm too angry at myself to put it together. It was unavoidable, my fake suicide. Could I have contacted John sooner? Probably. Certainly. If I had maybe he wouldn't look as if he hasn't eaten a decent meal in weeks.

What have I done to my blogger?

Molly starts mentioning she has to go to work early and Lestrade doesn't object leaving. John says goodbye and I glance up to acknowledge them. Molly shoots me a stern look and I know she will be interrogating me about John's alcoholism. Lestrade waves and grabs her hand, pulling her from the now quiet flat.

The moment the door was shut John’s smile faded and he looked at the empty glass he never set down. Seeming surprised at the empty glass cradled to his chest, he blinks down at his hands for a moment. Gaining his senses he wasted no time walking to the kitchen, barely limping for his foot is an empty pain in comparison to the raging need to drink.

I didn't miss the way he paused and stared at the counter where the 22 had been. 

I didn't miss his defeated sigh as he poured himself another glass.

I didn't miss the trembling hand that clenched into a fist in attempt to be still.

I didn't miss how he wouldn't look at me as he took the drink and went to his room.

I did miss him when he walked up the stairs.


	7. Chapter Seven

Take my hand, knot your fingers through mine  
And we'll walk from this dark room for the last time

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

John's POV

 

I can’t believe Molly and Greg have been dating for three months and I didn’t know. Guilt drags me to the bed and makes me finish the drink. I have been so selfish, abandoning my friends like that. God I am a horrible person, my thoughts flick to the gun and I wrap the sheets tighter around me. I stare at the empty space next to me on the mattress, curled in on myself to shield myself from the world. I hear Sherlock pacing downstairs, most likely staring at the photos trying to piece together the case. After nearly an hour he stops and it’s silent for a moment. Then the sound of a sad violin carries up to my room. I listen; trying to decipher what he is saying but all I can hear is ‘Goodbye John.’

I wrap myself tighter, and for the first time ever, I don’t want to hear Sherlock play. I only want it to stop, so I can sleep, so I can have a nightmare so I can have a nightmare so I can wake up hating myself and repeat. I close my eyes, and try ignoring the cries of a sinful melody. The world starts to go fuzzy, and then it’s dark.

~*~*~*~

“No. Don’t.”

Sherlock grinned maniacally; the flecks of blood across his face stand out with unknown origins. He lunges against his chains, hands grabbing for my throat. I flinch, knowing he is here because of me. I drove him mad, and he hates me. The thought is crippling, and far worse than any torture he could think of. If he hit me because he loved me I wouldn’t care, but he hates me to the center of his core and that’s the part I can’t stand.

I brace myself against the ground, ready for him to cut me or kick me but I glance up and he is gone. I look around and I’m in the middle of a deserted army base. The one I was stationed at. The sun beats down on me, and I stand, the cuts and bruises gone. I am wearing my uniform and I see no signs of life. Walking through the camp, it is obvious soldiers were here, but they are all gone now. No signs of fighting, just abandoned base. I wonder why I was left here to wither in the sun.

Pacing through, gun ready and on high alert, the silence is eerie and adrenaline pulses through my veins. I scan every tent and station, finding no one. I am alone. Walking further in to the barren base, I have the growing feeling I’m being watched. I freeze, turning slowly, looking between every gap and shadow casted by ammo crates and tents. I see nothing, but the tension is almost tangible.

Hearing sharp breathing, I turn again, facing a blank wall. I spin and see white walls closing me in like a boxed void. I check my gun, one bullet. I frown and walk to one of the walls. It’s too hard to break through, so I place a hand on the wall and walk, feeling for any variation in the smooth and unyielding barrier.

I hit the next wall and turn, repeating the process until my fingers glide across a bump. A small bump, but upon further inspection, it looks like a seam, a panel fusing the wall into one slab. I pry and kick at it until my fingers are bleeding and my legs are numb. With a frustrated cry, I take the gun and bash the barrel of it against the crack. Over and over again, until something breaks loose and the wall splits open. I kick through it, and suddenly I’m surrounded by tall grass.

The blades must be as tall as corn if not taller, and most are a foot or so above my head. It is definitely grass though because when I touch them they are soft and pliable. I duck and maneuver through the grass with no general place in mind until the grass stops suddenly. An expanse of freshly lain dirt stretches before me and I run across it. A large black building-like rectangle rises on the horizon. I cut across the soft dirt until the thing is fully in view. I gasp, bringing a dirt covered hand to my mouth in horror.

Sherlock’s grave stone looms before me, several stories tall and black obsidian. I step closer, the words SHERLOCK HOLMES mocking me in their light contrast to the rest of the stone. A small figure stands at the top and his voice cracks through the air, ‘Goodbye John.’ The figure plummets to the ground and hits the dirt with a soft thud. I run, tears leaving tracks on my soot covered face. Sherlock lays there, having jumped from his own tombstone to his death. I crouch beside him, holding to me and sob. Suddenly he grasps me and frantically says, “I did it, all of it, for you. I can’t help it, John I-“

He is cut off by the ground beneath us crumbling and we fall. I shout Sherlock’s name and try to grasp for him but it’s hard to see with the chunks of dirt cascading down with us. The light grows dim quickly as the sun is blocked by the hole caving in on itself. We plummet downwards for a bit until I hit something solid. It feels like wood, but a layer of dirt is covering it. It’s nearly impossible to see and I don’t hear Sherlock.

I whisper his name, the sound harsh and frightening in the vast darkness. No response, but suddenly I can see where I am. I wish it had stayed dark, because had I not been so afraid I would have been embarrassed by the scream that ripped from my throat. We fell into his coffin. We were going to be buried alive.

We.

Where is Sherlock?

I look around and he is motionless and covered in dirt. I crawl over to him, sore from hitting the wooden bottom of the coffin. I shake him and his eyes flutter open. Thank God. He stares blankly at me and stands, dusting himself off. He walks, unharmed and calm, to the wall and studies it. I wonder what he’s doing, but then he looks at me, expressionless, and kicks the wall. More dirt falls, and I run to him to stop him from burying us alive.

“I’m sorry John. You were never meant to be dragged down with me. But now we don’t have to die alone,” he says, something finally flicking across his face as he reaches for my hand.

I don’t protest because I’m too shocked realizing I like having his larger, albeit colder, hand in mine. The last thing I see is Sherlock as the roof falls and darkness envelops us once more.

~*~*~*~

Gasping, I bolt up in bed, searching for the gun and Sherlock. I drop my hands in my lap, seeing no danger and frowning sheepishly at my instinct. I glance at the empty side of the bed, unsure why I wanted Sherlock to be there. Just to know he’s ok? For comfort? Whatever it is I frown, putting my head in my hands, counting my breaths to stop my racing heart. After several minutes, my gaze shifts to the clock on my nightstand, 2:17.

Figuring I won’t go back to sleep soon, I slide from the bed, wincing when my foot hits the floor. I had almost forgotten I cut it, and now I wonder if it will ever heal properly. Focusing on the task at hand, I make it down the stairs to the kitchen. As I’m pouring myself a glass of water, a quiet voice shatters the silence of the dark flat.

“John? What are you-” Sherlock yawned and rubbed his eye, “What are you doing?”

“Christ Sherlock,” I breathe, glad I set the water down before he spoke.

He stands behind me, as I sip my water. Turning to him, I almost choke when I see him in only tight black boxer briefs, and cough the water from the wrong pipe. He is too tired to notice my gawking, and I’m glad because my eyes were roaming out of my control. I gulp, biting my lip at his bed tousled hair and clear my throat.

“Sh-Sherlock, what uh, why are you awake?” I pray he doesn’t catch me stutter, and nearly sigh in relief when he doesn’t.

“I heard you and I thought maybe were going to drink, and I didn’t want you to.”

I blanch at that. Sherlock was opposed to my drinking? Well he did make those comments, but I thought it was him just being smart.

“Was it another nightmare?” Sherlock guessed, even half asleep he was still right.

I nod, looking anywhere but him, and jump when he pulls me into a hug. Ok, not half asleep but barely awake. I am so glad the light in the room is scarce because my face felt like it was on fire and I knew it very red. Sherlock had initiated the hug, and was pressing his mostly naked body to me. I stiffly place my arms around him and force myself not to drag my fingertips across his bare back. He squeezes me tightly, clinging to me like I will fade away if he lets go.

“Sherlock it’s alright. I’m fine. See?” I reluctantly pry him off and hold his shoulders. His tired eyes scan my face and suddenly his demeanor changes. Sherlock gives me a pleading look, and I feel a strange tingle go down my spine.

“Would it make you feel better if you spent the night in my room so you could make sure I don’t have nightmares?” I try to console him because I’ve never seen this wide eyed look before and it feels so out of place I would do anything to get that confident and smart smirk back.

He pauses, and then nods a little, eyes dropping and arms reaching for me again. I wrap an arm around his waist, and he puts both arms around me and I lead us up the stairs. When I set him on the bed he is nearly asleep again and I wonder what he will say in the morning, if he comments at all. I shuffle under the covers on ‘my’ side and relax, actually happy to have him beside me. I nearly jump out of my skin when a cold hand slides over my waist and pulls me closer, hugging me to him. I freeze at first, but when he nuzzles his head into my neck I find it easier to fall asleep. Not questioning the feeling I get from this, I drift off into a dreamless slumber.

~*~*~*~

I wake to mumbling and tight arms around me. I turn my head to see Sherlock, sprawled across the bed, arms encircling me like a strange koala. I listen as he rambles and have to bring a hand to my mouth to stop the snort that nearly escapes. He’s muttering about the case, muffled strings of ‘murder,’ ‘alchemist,’ ‘no that can’t be right,’ and ‘silver.’ He lets go of me and turns but gets caught in the sheet and stops mid turn, looking like a mummy with jazz legs. At this thought I can’t help but chuckle a little, and my eyes widen as I realize I’m smiling.

That doesn’t happen these days.

My face drops and I turn away from Sherlock. I close my eyes for a moment, looking for a reason to not want him here, in my room, but I find none. This in itself is alarming, and my heart speeds up in my panic. Why doesn’t this bother me? I’m not gay, I can’t be I’ve never liked men! Maybe it’s just Sherlock…? Eyes sweeping over his sleeping form, I blush, feeling odd that I LIKE looking at him and I WANT him here with me. With that startling conclusion, I get up to get a drink to help wrap my mind around this, but Sherlock mutters again. I freeze, an unusual feeling coming over me when he mumbles, “John.”

Thinking he’s waking up I study him for any odd behavior at having woken in my bed. Granted, he is the one who offered spending the night with me anyways, but curiosity was a strong drive. He just mutters my name and his hands feebly grab through the sheets, towards the spot where I was. Not finding me, his arms go slack and he snuggles down into his pillow. I stand there, mouth agape as I process what I just saw.

Heart beating twice as fast, I dash down the stairs as fast as my leg will let me. I glance at the liquor, then decide I will just go to the bar later, I hastily begin making tea. My hand trembles so much I nearly drop the kettle, my nerves shot. As the water is heating up, I brace my hands against the edge of the counter, trying to slow my breathing. My head drops and I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself with locked arms. When the boiling water screams, its high pitch wail piercing through the kitchen I straighten up and finish making the tea.

“John?”

“Jesus Christ!” I jump, grateful I wasn’t holding anything because it would have fallen from my grasp.

Mrs. Hudson rushed over to me, worried and apologetic. She stares pitifully at me and asks, “John, are you alright? You about near jumped out of your skin! I thought you were Sherlock, why are you up so early?”

I just shake my head, hoping Sherlock stays asleep long enough for her to leave so he won’t be seen coming from my room. Mrs. Hudson places the tea and cups on a tray and brings it over to the coffee table. I sit in my chair and she sits in Sherlock’s, and I see her trying to hide her confusion at my choice of drink. Just as she’s about to ask however, her eyes flick behind me and grow wide before she raises her eyebrows at me in question.

I turn to see what she saw and nearly curse when I see Sherlock walking from the stair leading to my room. It would be easier to explain if he weren’t rubbing sleep from his eyes, walking to his room in only his underwear. Sherlock comes back from his room, still shirtless but now he has his blue robe on. Mrs. Hudson squeaks and I snap my eyes to her, rubbing my hands over my face with no reasonable excuse coming to mind.

We didn’t even DO anything.

She glances between us, grinning like mad. Sherlock seems dismissive of her behavior, while I’m fighting the heat rushing to my cheeks as she continues to gawk at us, mainly me.

“Well it’s about time you two!!! I thought you would never admit it, though it’s quite obvious what with the looks and all. How long has it been? Why didn’t you tell me? You don’t have to be shy, you know I wouldn’t kick you out, I think it’s lovely!” Mrs. Hudson beamed, talking rapidly in her excitement.

“Mrs. Hudson w-”

“Don’t spare me the details! I want to know when and how it happened and if it official and who asked who and were you dating before-”

“Mrs. Hudson!” I shout, stopping her before she talks until she has some crazy story in her mind that is anything but real.

“Sherlock and I are not a couple. We never were. I got up in the middle of the night last night and I woke up Sherlock. I told him it was because of a nightmare and he said he would stay with me in case it happens again because apparently I thrash around. Nothing. Happened.”

Sherlock gave me a strange look then focused on Mrs. Hudson who was startled at my tone but then smiled like I hadn’t said anything.

“Live and let live that’s my motto,” she winked and I rolled my eyes, not caring how childish and rude it may be.

Throughout all this, Sherlock hadn’t said a word and I wonder why he didn’t just brush it off with some smartarse comment. Mrs. Hudson must have been thinking the same because she turned to stare at him too. Sherlock just sat there, knee to his chest, his robe wrapped around him like a blanket, He was staring intensely at the wall, as if he were in his Mind Palace.

After an awkward silence, Mrs. Hudson gave me her best ‘we’ll discuss this later’ look and went downstairs. I rubbed my temple and glanced back at Sherlock who met my gaze and neither of us moved. We stared at each other for several minutes before it got too intimate for me and I sipped my now lukewarm tea. He hopped up, I scolded myself for looking at his bare chest when his robe flew behind him, and he jumped on the couch to stare at his case wall.

Relieved I don’t go in to work today, I decide to go for a walk, something I haven’t done in months. I go upstairs, getting dress in jeans and my off white sweater. Heading towards the door I tug on my jacket and turn at the feel of Sherlock’s gaze on me. I shake my head at his unspoken question and my brows furrow together when he seems to relax, understanding my gesture. Shrugging it off, I leave, ignoring the pain in my leg and foot.

I’d forgotten how amazing London is, when going to work or to the bar I kept my eyes on the ground. Looking around now, sober and headache free, I walk in silent awe as the people pass by and the buildings tower above me. Sticking my hands in my pockets, I let my feet and mind wander. My thoughts almost immediately turn to this morning, and my revelation that I like looking at Sherlock.

He is good looking, I’d go so far to say he’s attractive.

Even though he can be blind to compassion, I don’t find his antisocial tendencies overbearing.

I missed him enough to become an alcoholic and see him in my nightmares just to feel like he wasn’t gone.

And, despite his usually demeanor, these past few days when he was worried about me, I liked his attention.

…

Christ Sherlock.

…

I think I have a crush on you.

This epiphany is making my head spin, and I’m torn between smiling and fainting. Walking briskly, I try looking at the London landscape, anything to distract me from the moments between Sherlock and I replaying in my mind. Every glance, every touch, lazy mornings, cheap dinner, waking up next to him… NO! Eyes darting for anything, I gasp, leg nearly giving out under me when I see it.

The London Eye.

The panic of being alone, stranded in an empty ruined city seizes me and I stumble to a bench, hand trembling so bad I hide it in my pocket. The pain in my leg is excruciating, and I bite my tongue to keep from hissing in pain. I realize I must look crazy, falling to a bench, unable to breathe, and hands stuffed inside my pockets with my arms wrapped around my torso to keep myself together. I sit for a long time, the Ferris wheel spinning, and people milling by. I’m surrounded by people, unlike my nightmare. So why do I feel so alone?

Damn, I need to drink.

I stand, still a bit shaky, and head to the bar nearest the flat, so I won’t have to pay for a cab. No one notices the walls of London smothering me as I walk past. None of them see me breaking, the cracks are an extending spider web, crisscrossing in an almost pattern of crevices and fracture lines. Not a single person asks if I’m okay, counting four bullets and holding me at night. Caring touches and soothing words are missing as I push through the door to the bar.

None of them do, but I know one person who would.

I order vodka, nothing else able to burn away the empty space. I’ve had several when the door opens again, unseen behind my back. I’m still a wreck, the fire only burning my resolve to ashes. Intoxication has possessed me when a tall figure stands next to me and places money on the bar counter. I am not drunk enough when Sherlock frowns down at me, hand extended and the shine gone from his eyes.

“Take my hand.”

“Now people will really talk.”

“People do little else.”

“Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

“We can’t giggle it’s a crime scene!”

“Listen, what I said before John, I meant it. I don’t have friends; I’ve just got one.”

Memories of Sherlock and I flit across my mind. I look into his eyes, his despair showing eyes, knowing he blames himself for what I’ve become. For what I’ve done to myself. I glance at his hand, waiting to be grasped, and the memories just keep flashing by. My eyes dart to my empty glass and I sigh, making a decision. 

I grab Sherlock’s hand, fingers sliding together easily. His hand grips mine tightly as he drags me from the bar, the last thing I see being the empty cup as we exit the bar. He pulls me to our flat, the image of the glass staying still in my mind, a picture, a frozen frame of time.


	8. Chapter Eight

Every minute from this minute now  
We can do what we like anywhere

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

Sherlock's POV

John had left in a hurry, barely looking at me when he left. When he shook his head, I assumed he wasn’t going to drink but he had been gone for hours. I began pacing, walking over the furniture and through the main room. I counted the bullets, still four, and put them and the gun in separate places. I looked at the bottles in the fridge, so tempted to throw them away. I tried focusing on the case but John kept distracting me.

John. 

John. 

John.

For some reason, he is all I can think about; even when I went to my Mind Palace he was there. I groaned in frustration, plopping down on the couch and tap my fingers. I relay the days since my return, every look, touch, word spoken, and feeling. It’s frustrating, these strange and new sensations that have slowly become what I can only describe as emotion. Strong ones, and usually only associated with John. I worry about him, his drinking makes me nervous and I don’t like seeing him so defeated. When I wake up and see my arm around him, and see he hasn’t pulled away I have this uncharted flutter n my chest. It’s like happiness, but protective and doting. Emotions are unnecessarily complicated and I can’t decide if I appreciate them, but they involve John so it’s not that bad.

I fidget for a bit longer, contemplating calling John, and then decided I should just go find him. The first place I would think he’s at is a bar, knowing how he probably walked and had time to be miserable without me. The nearest bar is about a block from our flat, so I’ll start there. I yank my coat and scarf off the hooks and hurry down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson heard me and comes to say hello.

“Not now Mrs. Hudson, I’m going after John” I cut her off before she can ramble about something. Her mouth hangs open, words frozen in her mouth as she stops herself from saying what she had planned. The smile that spread across her face at my words was unexpected, but I didn’t linger on it as I rushed out the door. Weaving through people, I make it down the street in seconds. Searching for the entrance, I located it quickly and push through the door. Scanning through the crowd, I reason John wouldn’t be dancing for he would go to a bar only to drink. I pass people by, not caring if I don’t apologize, they are drunk and won’t care or remember for that matter. The bar counter comes into view, and a heavy weight in my chest is engendered when I see the familiar body.

It’s John.

Time slows as I take those final steps to him, placing money down for him. He turns to me, his eyes hard and distant. I reach for him, even if he doesn’t want to leave I will do anything to keep him from drinking. As he stares at my outstretched arm, the forlorn feeling washing over me like waves in a sea of distraught. Just as I fear he is going to turn away from me, a warm palm is pressed to mine. I latch our fingers together, secretly pleased his slightly smaller hand fits in mine.

I pull him from his chair, not giving him a chance to order one last drink, and drag him to the door. Neither of us say a word as I take him home, ignoring the few people we pass who step aside at the dark expression on my face. By the time I’ve burst through 221B, John in tow, I’m torn between rage and aguish.

How could he do this?

Does he really care that much about me or that little of himself?

What could I have done differently to change this?

The internal battle grows fiercer as John follows me into the living room. He stands there, hands stuffed in his pockets, tucking his arms to his sides. Leaning mostly on one leg, I can see him fighting to keep a placid face but the resigned barrier he had built in my absence is puting itself back up. The desolation in his eye resounds in mine and I want to hold him and make him sit but I want to yell at him and ask why he is hurting himself so badly. Seeing him press his arms to his torso as if it will protect him is the deciding factor. I gesture to the chairs and he sits, while I remain pacing around the room between the furniture. John watches me with weary eyes, waiting for me to speak.

“John, this habit of yours, it’s not healthy and you’re depressed. You need help,” I begin, hoping I don’t say something to set him off and cause Mrs. Hudson to come up here.

“Sherlock it’s not that simple-”

“Of course it is. Stop drinking and talk to a professional about your nightmares. I don’t see why asking for help is such a problem for you,” I snap.

He sighs, his right hand coming up to rub his temple, “No it isn’t. I can’t just ‘stop drinking.’ I’ve become dependent on alcohol, and I hate it, really I do, but it’s the only thing that I thought would stop the nightmares. Even if I did quit drinking, the nightmares won’t go away. There is nothing that will stop them, and the more I see you die the worse my depression gets. So sorry your return didn’t magic the pain away, if I could help it I would. But I can’t, Sherlock I can’t.” John’s voice broke as he whispers the last part. I run a hand through my hair, measuring his words. There has to be a solution, there has to be!

“Show me your hand.”

“What? Sherlock what are you on about?”

“Your left hand, the one you’re hiding in your coat pocket. Show it to me,” I command, an idea gracing my mind.

His eyebrows draw together in confusion, and in any other situation I may be tempted to smile at that, but not now. Reluctantly, his hand emerges from his jacket and he holds it out to me to see. Even from the window I can see it quivering. I stride to him, crouching down on the floor next to his chair.

“John,” I say softly, “Make a deduction, for me,” I glance between his hand and his eyes.

“Sherlock,” he whispers.

“Just, say something please.”

He takes a deep breath, staring at his hand like it’s a traitor, something he wants to despise and question. “I see,” he pauses, looking to me for reassurance, I nod once and he continues, “I see my hand, my-the tremor is back. I can’t keep my hand still, and it’s a psychological effect due to e-emotional trauma.” He is barely able to mutter his deduction, throat tight from the pain forged during those months of solitude.

“You know what I see?” I lean in, forcing him to look at me, “I see a soldier who had bad days. I see a fighter who, despite the injuries sustained in war, managed to acclimate to the world again. I see a man who saved lives, and helped solve crimes. I see John Watson, the doctor who put up with a sociopath though I didn’t deserve it. I see this tremor and I see a sign of being strong too long. The fatigue of bearing all that stress and pain is emerging in this hand. You are not a failure John, you are a blessing. To everyone you meet. And this,” I hold his hand in both of my own, “is the result of putting others before yourself, and your body lashing out at you. As well as your leg, you have fought so long John. You’ve been building walls to keep this side of you from hurting anyone, but its killing you. I see this tremor, and I see my best friend. I see you, John.”

I give his hand a soft squeeze, and at some point John had started crying. A sob wracks his body, tears running from his eyes as he rubs his free hand over his face. Worrying I said something wrong, I take one of my hands off but as the other is slipping from his, he grabs it. John links our hands together and leans forward. I move to support the embrace, his whimpers the only sound in the flat as his tears dampen my coat.

I hold him, time nonexistent, as his sobbing slows to the occasional sniff. I run my free hand over his back, hoping it’s comforting because I have no clue. Gradually, the tears stop and he is silent. When he lifts his head and leans back, I take it as my signal to lean back as well, the space between us widening.

He stares at me for a moment, reading the empathy and sorrow in my eyes. After several minutes pass he says, “You would be a hero Sherlock.”

I halt, about to say no, but the fragile state he is in stops me. I just run my thumb over the back of his hand, still connected with mine. He either doesn’t notice, or is past caring. I stand, pulling him up with me. I gently pull him to the kitchen and take out the bottles, lining them up on the counter. He looks confused, and slightly alarmed.

“One battle at a time,” I brush his arm, calming him, “Throw them away.”

“Sh-”

“One battle at a time. I’ll help you through this. We’ll start with the alcoholism. Throw them away.” I command softly, knowing it has to be him to throw them away, as a part of moving past this.

He lets go of my hand, trembling fingers reaching for the first bottle. He looks at me, I nod to encourage him. He closes his, taking a deep breath, then his hands wrap around the first glass of poison. Opening his eyes, he carries it to the sink and dumps it down; when it’s empty he throws it in the other recyclables. Repeating this until the last bottle, silent tears trek from his eyes every so often. Holding the last empty bottle above the bin, his should shake and I place a hand on his shoulder. He lets go and it falls with a clatter on top of the others. Turning to me he wraps his arms around me, soundlessly breaking down. I hold him and lean my head to his ear to whisper, “I’m proud of you.”

When he calms down, I make tea and simple sandwiches, knowing he needs to eat. We sit at the table, no words spoken, none are needed. He picks at his sandwich, taking small bites and chews with a stiff jaw. I wait patiently until he has eaten enough, not moving until he eats at least half. As he sets it down, a fair bit of it remaining, I remind myself he hasn’t eaten much and that’s a big meal for him.

John looks exhausted, eyes still puffy from crying. I take both of our cups and clean the table, noting he is too tired to look surprised. I put my hand out, confused at the tingle I get when he accepts my offer and grabs it. I help him up and tell him he needs rest, he doesn’t disagree so I let him lead me from the kitchen. To my complete bewilderment, he goes to my room, not even hesitating. I say nothing as he crawls into my bed, not bothering to undress except for his shoes and coat. I stand there, uncertain if he wants me to stay or go. I hover in the door way, discreetly glad when he looks at me hopefully. I grab his coat, hanging it up next to mine and my scarf. Placing our shoes next to the door, I shed my shirt and pants. No way am I wrinkling those, John will have to deal with it.

I turn to see him looking at me, and I suddenly feel very conscious of myself and hurry under the covers. John seems to doubt himself, so I reach for him and he hesitates. I wait, and then he shuffles closer, I drape my arm over his torso as he finds a comfortable position. He closes his eyes, but it takes a while for him to fall asleep, his heart rate going from very fast to relaxed, and he drifted into sleep. I wasn’t tired, so I just looked at John, he seemed less sad in his sleep. Figuring I could work while I lay here doing nothing, I enter my Mind Palace.

“Sherlock.”

I turn, the snarky tone of my brother the first thing I hear.

“It’s not going to last, you know. He is going to get past this and he won’t need you. You should stop it now before you grow to appreciate it,” Mycroft leans on his umbrella, looking at me with a bored and annoyed expression.

I ignore him and walk away, standing in the building the cabbie who was tricking people in to suicide and tried to get me to take a pill. It was where John shot a man to save me, and has nothing to do with the alchemy case. I look around, maybe he is here, but as I turn, the room changes and I’m our flat. The smell of alcohol is overly sharp, and empty bottles of everything cover the surfaces and some have fallen to the ground. The dark scene is disrupted by John, too drunk to walk, who stumbles from my room.

“It’s too much Sherlock, you can’t help. I can’t do this anymore,” he speaks, strangely clear for someone so intoxicated.

“John, I’ll do anything, just tell me how to help,” I try to stay calm, but seeing him so resigned is nerve wracking.

“I’m sorry. Goodbye Sherlock.”

“John what are y- NO DON’T!” I shout, lunges towards him as he brings the 22 to his mouth and pulls the trigger, dropping just like Moriarty.

I run to him, holding his head in my lap, startled when something wet lands on his forehead. It takes me a moment to realize I’m crying, something I haven’t done since I was very young. I hold John to me, his perfection a blurred image as tears fill my eyes. I rock back and forth, howling as his body temperature lowers and the blood stains us both. The red stains our clothes, a demented reminder. The room around us disappears and my Mind Palace is empty, blank except for John’s lifeless form in my arms. I scream and spasms shake my body as the grief consumes me and tries to express itself. My tears mix with his blood, a small trail of it running from us, escaping the horror as I hold my blogger.

I’m startled from my Mind Palace, shaking with what I just saw. I look around to see what shocked me from my thoughts, and see John thrashing next to me. He’s mutter and pressing his hands to his head in distress. I pin his arms down, shouting John’s name and ‘wake up!’ He doesn’t hear me and starts shuddering in fear. I try shaking him, but he starts muttering ‘No, no, someone help me please!’ and I sit back, unsure. Last time I sat on him to keep him still, but I don’t think he would like a repeat of that.

Deciding calming him down matters more than his annoyance, I pin his arms down again and sit on him, begging him to wake up. When he stops moving enough for me to let go of his wrists I run a hand through his hair, the result was astonishing. He relaxed and I was about to move off of him when he gasped and woke up, sitting up and nearly knocking out heads together. Terror is etched across his face and he clings to me, too upset to care I’m still on his lap, and shirtless for that matter. I hold him for what seems the hundredth time today, not that I care, and slowly his breathing goes back to normal.

“Are you alright now, John?” I say concerned, and quietly in the silence.

“No.”

I feel him shake his head and I move to the side of him, leaning him on my chest. We stay like that for nearly half an hour before he lies back down. I don’t dare go, but he faces away from me, and I sense he doesn’t want me to talk. I just stare at his back, hands in my lap aimlessly shifting. I don’t think I should rub his back. He curls in on himself and I begin to assume he wants me to go. I shift to do just that and he reaches behind himself and grabs my arm. I sit and wait, as he stares at the wall. I decide to rub a hand across his upper arm and he doesn’t shy away so I continue this for a few moments.

Time keeps going by, and John looks to be asleep. I should go and make tea for when he wakes up. I carefully lift my hand from his shoulder, looking for any reaction to the change. Seeing none I slowly inch off the mattress, and across the floor. Tip-toeing is something no one can do gracefully, I conclude as I hold my arms out for balance while padding across the floor.

I’m in the doorway when I hear him say it.

Words I wish I’d never heard.

Not from him. 

Not from my John, my wonderful blogger.

The words that create spider web cracks in my Mind Palace, doing their best attempt to stop and shatter my world. Doing their best to taunt me with images similar to what I saw prior to his nightmare. The seven words, nineteen letters of given up hope that nearly bring me to the ground.

The whispered words that part John’s lips, words I don’t think he meant for me to hear.

“I just want it to be over.”


	9. Chapter Nine

I want so much to open your eyes  
'Cause I need you to look into mine

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

John's POV 

A few days had gone by, hours upon hours of misery. After I whispered, ‘I just want it to be over,’ which I hadn’t meant for Sherlock to hear, he’s been very weary around me. He doesn’t say much, and his lack of words is unnerving considering it’s him. When he isn’t doting on me, he is staring at the wall of notes, pacing and studying the case. Sherlock hasn’t dared leave the flat, keeping me under strict supervision. He still comforts me, but he’s acted strange ever since my confession. I feel as though he’s placed me on a pedestal, something to view but not touch, for surely at the slightest wrong move I will fall and break.

I haven’t cried since that night, too empty and high-strung because the withdrawal had begun to affect me. Not just my hand tremors, but often all of me shakes, as if I’m cold. The symptoms didn’t set in the first two days, but by the third I was an anxious mess. My emotions were amplified, switching between being irritated or nervous. It’s affecting Sherlock, who’s doing his best not to sneak up on me or annoy me. Yesterday I was staring out the window and Mrs. Hudson came in and dropped a book, I nearly jumped out of my skin and had to sit down. This morning Sherlock was pacing and I snapped at him, then immediately felt bad because he’s trying to help.

Now I’ve taken to lying in Sherlock’s bed, which is where I am now. I would go upstairs but Sherlock refused to let me go that far, so I just wrap up in his sheets and don’t move all day. He’s been trying to make me eat, even mentioning food makes me nauseous. Molly was here, she wanted to ask me about my drinking and I couldn’t let another person down so I didn’t tell her. I think she went to Sherlock, but I was hiding in his room.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, I stare at the wall, trying to focus on the conversation that follows the opening of the door.

“How is he?”

“The symptoms are stronger now, I’m afraid.”

“And you’re sure he hasn’t had any drinks at all since they were thrown out?”

“Positive.”

“It’s so sad, seeing him like this. It’s almost worse than…”

There was a pause, and at this point I could tell it was Mrs. Hudson, who knew better than to bother me when I wasn’t in the main room. I don’t think Sherlock would let her, anyways. The next bit is spoken in hushed tones, and it’s hard for me to distinguish the whispered words.

“… hadn’t been every night … first week … some … mornings when he was on your chair … worse … nearly called … it’s a wonder …”

There was a deeper rumble, Sherlock. His responses were short, like questions, and I didn’t catch most of what he was saying. She left not long after, and footsteps padded to the doorway. I felt his gaze on my back, knowing he could tell I’m not asleep. Sherlock sighs and I don’t move, closing my eyes. He lingers in the doorway for a bit, something holding him back. After what feels like hours, he leaves, and I am surprised to hear the door open and his footsteps on the stairs. I start to stand, but a headache hits me and I lay back down. I don’t want to sleep, god I don’t want to sleep, the nightmares have only gotten worse because the neurotransmitters in my brain were rebelling my lack of alcohol consumption. The headache becomes too much, however, and I nod off.

~*~*~*~

My sister stands before me, in our childhood home. The house looks too clean to have children and the lights unusually bright. She places a hand on my shoulder, a sad smile stretching across her face. Our parents walk past, and we follow, though Harriet walks slower than me, as if she doesn’t want to go to them. I just follow them to the kitchen to see us. Harry and I are younger than ten, sitting at the table with mom and dad. Mom was cutting of the crust from our pb&j’s, and dad was pouring young me a glass of juice.

“Can they see us?” I ask, turning to present age Harriet.

“No, they wouldn’t want to,” she frowns at the four sitting around the table, eating and laughing.

I turn from her in confusion and look around when our parents and young Harriet are gone. My younger self just sit there, eating the sandwich like nothing is wrong. I glance over my shoulder and Harriet has noticed too, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.

“Where did they go?” I ask, hoping for some explanation.

“Away,” she says, shrugged nonchalantly.

“Why is he, er, me, why didn’t he go to?” I glanced away from her, and he is still munching on his sandwich.

“Nobody took him, because he doesn’t exist. That part of you is gone, John, the part of you that has a happy family. Who isn’t alone,” she sighs, as if telling me this is below her, useless knowledge.

I stare at her, hurt by her words, I look at that younger John, turning back to see Harry left. That’s just great. Clenching my fist, I walk from the doorway to the kitchen table, sitting next to the boy. He glances at me, eyes wide and chipmunk cheeks filled with food.

Swallowing it he says, “Who are you?”

Freezing, I don’t know if telling him is a good idea so I don’t for now, “My name is John, I was a doctor in the Army.”

“My name’s John too! You were in the Army? That’s so cool, I bet you’re a hero,” he says excitedly, peanut butter and jelly forgotten.

Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.

Sherlock’s voice reminds me, and I try to smile at him but fail. He is undeterred and keeps talking animatedly.

“Was training hard? Where were you? Did you shoot a gun? Did you kill any bad guys?”

“It wasn’t too bad, I was in Afghanistan, yes I’ve shot a gun and yes I killed some bad guys,” I listed, answering all of his questions honestly, hoping he can tell me where the others went.

Before I can ask, he keeps talking, “So you are a hero! I bet that’s so cool. I should ask mommy if I would be a good soldier.”

I take this chance to change the subject, “Speaking of your mother, where is she? Where did they go?”

He smiles and picks at his food again, “Oh they left. They do that. I don’t know where, but it doesn’t matter, they always come back. It’s not lonely, they are never gone long. Sometimes my sister, Harry, stays with me. She’s a great sister!”

I look away, he has no idea what she’s like. What I’m like. I stand, ready to go anywhere but here. I push the chair back in and nod at the boy, going out the way I came. His last call follows me out the door.

“Nice to meet you, sir! Goodbye, John!”

My hand shakes as I walk down the street, Harriet gliding in step next to me. I ignore her, and continue walking as the pavement beneath me is replaced by tiles and I look around to see I’m in an airport. The nearest terminal is the only place with people so I head there, hoping it’s where I should be. My sister says nothing as she follows me to the terminal.

I frown as I see myself standing there in my new uniform. I’m about to board to go to training then to Afghanistan, and mom and dad had passed away before they knew I was going to serve. Harriet never showed up, I just got a drunken call, telling me not to get shot. Present day Harriet gives me an apologetic smile and places her hand on my arm, I don’t shrug her away, but I’m tempted to.

The uniformed John sits alone, receiving looks of pity from other travelers. His hand clenches, and when boarding starts he stands and sticks his chin up. I watch him hand his ticket to the lady, and glance back at the waiting area, checking for his hung over sister who never came. Seeing no one, he boards the plane and I turn to my sister.

“Was showing up really too much to ask? I thought you’d sober up, just for half a day to say goodbye, but you barely made it through that call. If I had gone, and never came back, would you have even cared?” I ask, jaw clenched in anger.

She turned to me, smile gone and no expression, “You know what it’s like to drink so much you don’t want to move. I should have gone, really I should. But I didn’t, and I can’t change that. It was a pathetic excuse for not going, ‘oh I better finish the bottle.’ I’m sorry, truly I am. But you were made to be alone. You are damned to be alone, and no one can save you, because you don’t want to be saved. You are wallowing in your pain, and I know sucking it up is the hardest thing to do, but you need to. You are going to die, you are going to go mad because thought you were made to be alone, it is what will kill you. Your loneliness is a death sentence, John,” as she was speaking she morphed into Moriarty. He grinned a sideways smile, a look that said ‘too bad.’

He is the last person I want to see, being the reason Sherlock faked his death and left me to become what I am, “Go away.”

“Oh not very friendly are we, Johnny boy?” Moriarty smirks, walking around me in a circle.

“Shut up. You caused this,” I bite back, jaw clenched in anger.

“Just trying to tell you the truth. No need to start pointing fingers. Do you really think I did this? I caused you to be alone? You had Mrs. Hudson, and Greg Lestrade, and that Molly girl I guess. If Sherlock had wanted to come home, he could have. I didn’t make him stay away from you, I’m dead. It’s not very fun, dead people don’t get my jokes,” he stops walking, standing in front of me with a bored frown.

I roll my shoulders, trying not to think about his words. Sherlock had to take down Moriaty’s network, he came back as soon as he could. Right?

He could have called.

Maybe he had no service in Serbia.

He didn’t leave right away.

You don’t know that.

He had to be sure you were safe.

I’m the biggest threat to myself.

Jim smiles, raising his eyebrows and whistling. I walk away, desperate to put distance between the psychotic and I. I jog through the airports, Moriarty’s shout chasing after me, “You can’t run from yourself John, you just can’t!”

I pass terminal after terminal, looking for a door out. As I am passing yet another gate, the scene around me fades and Sherlock stand next to me on the moors of Baskerville. The mine field and buildings seem far away, and we stand there in the sun, wind howling across the grass. Sherlock is upset, hands running through his hair absently as he paces beside me. He’s muttering and I don’t understand because he’s talking to fast. He strides back and forth, agitated and it bothers me to see him upset.

He stops, turning to me and the sun makes his pale porcelain face sharp, defined by the shadows of his cheekbones. He is breath taking, and it takes me a moment to remember I’ve decided to let myself be attracted to him, the idea still odd to me. He walks up to me, grabbing me by the shoulders and leaning down, enabling me to see the pain in his eyes.

“John there’s nothing I can do! I’ve thought of every possible solution and none of them would work!” Sherlock states, panic rising behind his eyes.

“Sherlock, what are you talking about?” I ask, needing to know the cause of his terror.

“Don’t you see? You were made to be alone, and I don’t want you to be alone. John I don’t want you to die, I want to stay with you, but I just keep hurting you and making it worse. I can’t help you because the longer I stay, the more I’m going to damage you. Hurting you kills me, so either way we will both die! If I stay, I’ll make you miserable, thus killing myself. If I go, you’ll be alone, which will be your end and I can’t imagine living in a world without John Watson,” his grip tightens on my shoulder as his eyes waver. Tears fill mine as I process the meaning of his speech, he doesn’t want to live without me, like I without him. Yet, we are doomed because together we still rip each other’s hearts out.

“Sherlock don’t. We can figure it out. I’d rather have you, cursed or not. I don’t care if staying with you brings back painful memories. The idea of being without you is even worse. Don’t make me be alone again, would you do that for me, please? Just…. Don’t. Go. Away,” I try to pull him into a hug but he jumps away from me.

“Sherlock?”

“John we can’t. I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” he whispers, looking down at the ground to avoid my teary gaze.

I bring a hand to cover my mouth, not letting the broken sob escape. The muffled cry is lost on the expanse of the moors, and only Sherlock could hear it, but he doesn’t hug me. He turns away, standing on a rock and looking across the plains.

“I can’t hurt you John, I can’t hurt my blogger,” he says, back still to me.

“Then don’t leave.”

“I can’t stand to see you like this, so torn between hating yourself for needing someone and trying to escape being alone,” he walks back to me.

“I will try harder, Sherlock. Didn’t you always say you’d be lost without me?” I try, hoping it will make him stay.

“That’s the point,” he sighs, then kisses me on the forehead. Tears fall freely from my eyes, because he doesn’t love me, who could? I think about his words, then quirk my eyebrows at him.

“Want to know what my greatest mistake was? Failing you. I’m sorry John,” and with that he backed away and started to walk out across the moor.

“If you walk away, don’t you ever come back, because I won’t be here to welcome you home,” I shout, despair choking me as the feeling of solitude begins to creep up on me. He doesn’t glance back, and I take a step to chase him, my leg buckling in pain. I scream myself hoarse at his disappearing silhouette, crumpled on the ground. I cry long after he’s gone, silent tears due to my lost voice. The sun never stops beating down on me as the empty moor stretches on for miles around me. Sherlock left, so my isolation keeps me company.

~*~*~*~

I sit up in his bed, the nausea roiling through me as I throw off the covers and run to the bathroom. As I heave, the feeling of being stranded on the grassy plain added to m discomfort. When I don’t feel as sick, I sit on the bathroom floor, knees tucked to my chest and hands to my face. Taking several deep breaths, my whole body shakes in my anxiety.

Long minutes go by, and I wonder why Sherlock isn’t back yet. He probably went to the Yard, to get away from me because I’m too much of a burden. Feeling stable enough to stand, I rise slowly and wash out the taste of puke form my mouth. I walk back out to the kitchen, to get aspirin and a glass of water. Looking through the cabinets, I freeze when I see the familiar small objects.

The four bullets.

I don’t see the gun anywhere, and I stare at the molded metal. Hand trembling, I pick on up and hold it in my palm, lips quivering but no tears coming. Glass of water forgotten, I walk from the kitchen in a trance, eyes fixated on the tiny but deadly bullet. I sit in my chair, across from his, and just cradle the bullet.

Could I do it?

I don’t doubt it.

Would I do it?

I linger on this question, images of my nightmares mocking me. Moriarty’s voice in particular stands out, louder than my sister.

‘Your loneliness is a death sentence, John.’

I glance at Sherlock’s chair, the stand, pocketing the bullet. I walk back to his room and crawl under the sheets, not daring to fall asleep, but not wanting to be left with my thoughts. So I try listing things that make me happy and one of the few, and the most prominent is Sherlock. So deciding it’s the only thing that will keep me from sleeping or thinking about the bullet in my pocket, I list things about him that make me happy. I start with his personality, his habits, his looks, memories, and his eyes. I list so many things about his eyes.

When the door to the flat opens later, I picture Sherlock hanging up his coat and scarf, worried about him. Hearing him walk over to peek in at me, I pretend to be asleep, not ready to face him but gathering the courage to do so soon. As Sherlock picks up his violin, the notes dancing away and towards each other I can’t decipher a story, or an emotion.

I’m still listing things about Sherlock.

This makes me smile, as I pull the blankets higher up to my chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
> 
> I have no clue if John’s parents are dead I just added that in for effect so if I am wrong, please don’t make it a big deal. Thank you for reading!!
> 
>  
> 
> ~Ashley~


	10. Chapter Ten

Tell me that you'll open your eyes [x8]

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

Sherlock's POV

It was much later than I had hoped upon my return to 221B. I had pieced together the case and had rushed to the Yard to explain, I would have been home sooner but no one else knew I was alive, so I had to change plans and meet Lestrade elsewhere because I still wanted to scare Donovan and Anderson. It had taken a while for Lestrade to understand because the killer was quite ingenious, and then Greyson offered to buy me a drink and he was asking about John and it took too long to get away. Now I’m running back to the flat, ignoring the rude stares I get because I need to get to John.

My fingers hardly work as I unlock the door, when it crashes open I race up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. I slow my pace, silencing my footsteps as I walk to the bedroom. I stop in the doorway, instantly relaxing when I see John’s sleeping figure in the bed, curled up with the sheets pulled up to his ears. I stare for a moment, conflicted by the feelings battling inside of me. I walk over to my violin, picking it up as I let the song create itself.

Feelings are dreadfully complex, and in no way scientifically corroborated.

Seeing him curled up in my room makes me sad because he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for his alcoholism. He is so shattered inside but he keeps a façade in hopes of tricking everyone into thinking he’s okay, but I see him. He’s still fighting, ever the soldier, but he is losing and I am determined to help.

This brings another feeling, a strong untamable need to protect him. It is paired with guilt, which mocks me in my blame. I can separate the urge to apologize and the instinct to hold him, though the drive to guard his heart is not provoked by my fault. I feel responsible for his depression, I have no doubt I am the cause. The compulsion to fix him was there long before that day on the roof, but since John has deteriorated it has only grown fiercer.

Something burns deeper than any of the other emotions, more prominent and consuming and though I would never admit it, it alarms me. Before John, I couldn’t care less about anything but now, now it’s just different. This change has been subtle; growing hidden away while it collects power. As John’s nightmares got worse, the feeling has revealed itself more, and I can’t help but wonder what it is. It makes me stare at him more than I used to, enjoying memorizing every trace of his skin. It causes me to want to be with John, in the same room, near him, sleep next to him. It amplifies my sorrow and regret for having been the origin of his pain.

I ponder attraction, and all of the usual symptoms match what I’m experiencing, but that’s preposterous.

I shut my eyes, letting the strange emotion guide the notes singing from my violin.

After several hours-time has no meaning when I pick up the bow-I place it down and walk to the bedroom. I strip down then put on pajama pants because it’s getting colder in London. I slide under the sheets next to John, who was still breathing evenly and I noticed he looked almost content. I hope he stays that way all night because he needs the rest. The foreign feeling causes my heart to speed up, and seeing him so untroubled makes me smile. I wrap my arms around him, and entwine our legs, mentally collecting the data as this close proximity makes the feeling so much bolder. I tuck my face into John’s hair, another soft smile when I feel it prickling my cheek. Relaxing, I find sleeping in the position makes it much easier to fall asleep. Whether this was due to the peculiar warmth in my chest, or John tucked into my arms, I wouldn’t know because I was already snoring softly.

~*~*~*~

I wake to feel John still in my arms, however his breathing pattern tells me he’s awake.

“John?” I mumble sleepily, stretching and accidentally running my foot across his calf.

He tenses, I feel his leg muscles locking in place as his breath hitches, “Sh-Sherlock I didn’t want to wake you by moving and oh god, I, uh, sorry you were just so wrapped around me I thought I’d disturb you. Sorry,” he sound nervous, but I have no idea why, we’ve slept like this every night, though I suppose I usually wake first and I was much clingier than normal last night.

“It’s fine John, there’s nothing to apologize for. You’ve could have moved if you wanted I wouldn’t have minded, it probably wouldn’t have woken me,” I say, sitting up as he does as well. I see him looking at my hair and bare chest before his eyes snap back to mine. At the contact, color fills his cheeks and he looks away sheepishly.

Studying this, I can’t help but notice our legs are still touching, calves burning through the thin pajamas. I blink and look around and then it hits me.

“John!” I say excitedly.

“What?” he asks, confused and anxious.

“You didn’t have any nightmares! John this is excellent! I wonder what it was, perhaps the lack of alcohol. Are you feeling better?” I talk quickly, scrunching my eyebrows together when he doesn’t light up or smile.

“I did have one, but I couldn’t wake up. It was just about…” he trails off, taking interest in his hands.

“John, what did you dream about?” I ask softly, grabbing his chin and making him look at me, but he closes his eyes, the stubborn bloke.

“Nothing.”

“John.”

He sighs, his shoulders dropping, and he grabs my arm, leaning on me for support. He takes deep breaths then I see his resign failing and his walls falling, “I saw you, Sherlock.”

“It wasn’t like my other nightmares. It was different. YOU were different,” he whispers, eyes still closed.

“Tell me about it, John,” I whisper too, the tension in the room building and making my voice small. I didn’t hurt him did I? 

His voice is nearly inaudible, “You, erm, you, I- it was, ugh!” John groans in frustration. I sit there puzzled, waiting for him to continue knowing he’s trying to find the right words.

“You were not yourself. You, uh, were nicer and got along with everyone, even Anderson. You found a wife and had a child and everyone loved you. That’s not what bothered me, although I prefer this you, it was scary to see you hosting a barbeque,” he half smiles and I don’t comprehend what he’s saying.

“You never knew me, none of them did. You hated me, and,” his face scrunches together as he fights through the words, eyes still shut, “you didn’t care about me and no one else could see me. I couldn’t wake up because I wanted to make you care. I wanted you to care about me that way I care about you. I told you was… broken, and you, you said there was nothing to fix. You just kept brushing me off, telling me I was, that I was made to be a-alone,” he sniffs, inhaling deeply through his nose and his fist clenches on the sheets.

My heart drops at his words, and that feeling, the one that remains unidentified guides me through my next actions.

“Open your eyes, John,” I whisper, our foreheads inches away.

Resolution dawns upon his features, and slowly his eyes open, flicking straight to mine. The connection causes a pang in my chest, and my heart beat speeds up, as does John’s breathing. I don’t break the gaze as I bring my hands up to his face, placing them carefully on his cheeks. The words leaving my mouth have never been so true, nor have I ever been more certain when I say, “I care, John.”

Then, acting on the feeling alone, I lean in and press my lips to his forehead. It was brief, but his breath hitched in his throat, and I could feel his pulse racing under my hands. I lean back to see him staring at me with an expression I’ve never seen him make before, and I tuck him against my chest, arms wrapping around him to hold him close. He does the same, and I’m sure he can hear my heart, beating in a way it never has. I whisper in his ear, “You were made to be with me.”

I understand when a broken cry is muffled by my chest.

~*~*~*~

Over the next few days, John stays out of our room, as I’ve come to think of it. He is still quiet, still recovering from breaking his drinking habit. Mrs. Hudson has been surprised by his presence, and Molly was pleased to here he is recovering. Lestrade smirked and said something about a hobbit and a dragon. I’ve been happy that he seems to be moderately alright without the alcohol, although he has had a few episodes that ended in complaints from the neighbors.

The atmosphere has changed between us, ever since that morning when I kissed his forehead. Sitting unnecessarily close, lingering glances that last much longer than they did before, small things to help each other like passing a pen, communicating without saying anything. Though we did that before, it was usually John trying to silently tell me to stop being a know-it-all.

The biggest difference is contact when not needed- little touches like a hand brushing against a sleeve, his feet between mine at the table, a nudge in passing. He and I usually never say a word when either of us initiates these minor actions, but there’s a lift in his cheeks, not quite a smile. He is getting there, nowhere near the light hearted blogger he once was, but he is recuperating faster than most would. Soldiers never stop fighting.

John’s hand still trembles, sometimes I catch him staring at it as it shakes. He looks at it like it isn’t a part of him, a detached fragment of a bitter past. He looks at the quivering fingers and his eyes flicker to the empty alcohol cabinet. Then he’ll make a fist and flex his fingers, trying to make the tremor go away, but it hasn’t. Maybe it never will, but that gives me an excuse to grasp his hand with mine.

I’d told him I solved the case, and he just methodically got out his laptop. Not used after the fall, dusty and stored away. I gave him the file and sat across from him in my chair, explaining the alchemist killer. He opened the blog and I saw him type the headline ‘THE SILVER LINING.’ Humming in amusement, I find the title quite fitting and nearly smile seeing he hasn’t lost his touch. We sit for hours, him typing and I talking, and it feels nice, like home; something familiar amidst an ocean of dark waves, crashing against us with their uncertainty.

After he finished writing, he saved it to post when the world knows I’m back. We just sit there, the silence not uncomfortable, enjoying each other’s company. When he seems to grow anxious again, no longer in the trance from writing, I decide to break the silence.

“Anderson and Donovan still don’t know I’m back yet. Suppose we give them an unexpected hello?” I try, putting all my effort into not letting a smile break across my face as John lights up at the suggestion.

He speaks slowly, not letting the hope of being happy again lace through his words, “That’s something I’d like to see. What did you have in mind?”

“Their affair still exists… what you think their reactions would be if Anderson’s wife was to ‘come home early’ and be expecting the need to explain themselves and I step out of the shadows? They don’t believe in ghosts or karma, do they?” I ask, thinking of so many ways we could prank them, something I’ve never done as it seems silly but if it will cheer up John I’ll do anything.

“Alright. How about going to the Yard and surprising them there? I don’t want to be arrested for breaking and entering only to find them having sex in the shower. That would be horrible. What do you think?” He says, frowning at the idea of being arrested or finding the two in a compromising position.

Willing to do anything he suggests because he must be interested enough in it to say it out loud I reply enthusiastically, “Brilliant! When do you want to go?”

“I suppose now is fine, let me put on a warmer shirt,” John says, going off in search of a sweater. He comes back in his cream colored one, and I can see he’s lost an unhealthy amount of weight, the shirt feebly encasing him. I hand him his jacket, pulling mine on then looping my scarf around my neck. I open the door and he goes down the stairs, I follow closely behind. I hail a taxi and we sit, mulling over ideas as we make the trip to the Yard.

Sneaking in, he follows me as we duck behind walls and in to unoccupied rooms to avoid being seen. It reminds me of the night before I stood on the roof top, the two of us linked by the handcuffs.

‘Take my hand.’

‘Now people will really talk.’

As I round a corner I halt, John smacking into my back but I brace myself on the wall. Lestrade peers at us curiously, John regaining his balances and takes a step back from me.

“What are you two doing here?”

“A welcome back present to myself. John and I are going to surprise Anderson and Donovan,” I explain, looking around to make sure they aren’t approaching from either hall. John nods a hello to Lestrade who pauses then glances back at me, eyes flickering between us.

“Right, well this I have to see. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all, do you know where they’re at?” John asks his voice quiet at first, then clearing his throat he speaks at almost a normal volume. Lestrade thinks for a moment, covering his shock well. I know he hadn’t expected to see John here, I’ve told him and Molly that John is still recovering and to avoid that topic near him.

“Well if they are blowing off work, which is likely, they are in Anderson’s office doing things that don’t belong in the workplace. Follow me I’ll lead the way,” he says, smiling at the thought of messing with his fellow employees.

John and I do as he says, the three of us traveling to a higher floor. Lestrade walks past the office door, inconspicuously glancing in the small window as he passes. Based off the grimace produced, the two were inside. He walks back, not looking in and asks what the plan is.

“We were going to wing it.”

“Seriously? That’s all you got? That’s a bit of a letdown,” Lestrade says, than smirks saying, “I’ve got something. Okay, here’s what we’ll do.”

~*~*~*~

Lestrade was doubled over in laughter, and I was chuckling at their shocked faces, a mixture of horrified and embarrassed. As Lestrade clutched his sides, I glance at John, my smile widening when I see the corners of his mouth pulled up in amusement. I catch his eye and the corners turn up enough to be a small smile, I regain my composure as Lestrade is wiping tears from his eyes. Anderson and Donovan are just staring at me, mouths hanging open.

“I knew it!”

I turn to his exclamation, Anderson looking at me wildly, “Knew what?”

“That you were alive of course! I had theories on how you did it, the f-”

“Not this again, you obsessed creep. Honestly, it’s all he would talk about, frankly it was getting on my nerves. More than when you two sneak off to suck each other’s faces off,” Lestrade interrupts before Anderson can talk about my fake suicide. I send him a grateful glance as his eyes dart to John, who bears his blank expression again. The two have the decency to look down and away from each other.

“Well, not that this wasn’t fun, but I also come here to ask about a case,” I say, taking the topic further from anything that would upset John. He’s put his hands in his coat pockets again, his left hand seems to be playing with a small object but it’s most likely just him twiddling his fingers. Lestrade waves off the two who walk away, probably to some storage closet somewhere.

“Right, of course. We have this one, I can show you the files,” he says, walking towards his office as John and I follow.

After giving me details on a brutal murder, Lestrade waved us out. As we were leaving, he gave John a quizzical look then a pointed look at me. I shook my head, mouthing ‘he’s trying’ before leaving without a goodbye. After walking through the doors, John informs me he doesn’t want a cab so we walk in silence. I see his hand shaking, so I grab it, meeting his gaze when he looks up at me with wide eyes. I just squeeze his hand in comfort and tug him down the sidewalk.

We enter the flat, earning a shouted ‘hello dearies’ from Mrs. Hudson and I follow John up the stairs and to the couch. He sits, jacket still on and no expression, I lay across the whole couch, putting my head in his lap.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John asks, clearly surprised but not bothered.

“Ssh John I need to go to my Mind Palace and your lap serves as a pillow for my head,” I use our newly acquired case, closing my eyes to look like I’m thinking. Leaning on his lap, I find it quite comfortable, and I relax. Letting my thoughts roam, I ponder this strengthened connection with John. Whatever is it, you know you just don’t want to say it, it seems mutual. He has engaged some of our contact and he doesn’t seem to mind when I do.

When John brushes a hand through my hair, I have to stop myself from opening my eyes, pretending I’m still in my Mind Palace. The touch is strange, but oddly pleasing. After nearly an hour he falls asleep, the hand in my hair limp and sliding off my head. I slowly sit up, so as not to disturb him. I pick him up, surprised he doesn’t stir, and carry him to our room. I tuck him under the sheets and contemplate going to buy groceries or sleeping. I decide I’ll buy them in the morning and take John’s jacket off so he can be more comfortable. I join him in bed and wrap an arm around him, then frowning when the feeling makes me anxious. I don’t know why, but something just seems off. So I lace my fingers through his and hold him close, willing the nightmares away.


	11. Chapter Eleven

All this feels strange and untrue  
And I won't waste a minute without you

Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

 

John's POV

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

The hand was inching its way around the clock, tentatively stepping forward in time, ever circling around twelve numbers. In the dark flat, the sound of the seconds marching on was the only thing breaking the silence. The space between each tick was comforting, the constant pause then shift of the hands.

Listening, I stand in the empty flat, shadows overlapping in the minimal light cast from the windows. The dust settled over everything creates a thin grey blanket, with each tick another particle settles, mapping the years with each valley and every mountain of dust. I embrace the darkness of the room, shying from the light near the windows. The shadows suit the abandoned building, the dim corners matching the gloomy room.

No one has been here in years.

No bare feet treading across the wooden floors; nothing remains in the fridge- long since emptied. No clutter on the table, barren cabinets. Sheets cover the furniture, stiff from resting so long. The shelves hold no books; the mantle above the fireplace has forgotten the skull it displayed. No coats hung near the door, only a single blue thread from a scarf, easy to miss if you weren’t exceptionally perceptive. Two chairs, facing each other, were left untouched and uncovered. They had evidence of wear; talking the evening away, days of researching-not moving until the blog was posted, long nights of laughing and enjoyed company.

The whispers of a violin echo spiritlessly, ghosting past then gone, none of the notes lingering. The yellow smile sprayed on the wall is still there, part of the circle ruined by ripped wall paper. The holes created by boredom are hard to notice, had any visitors walked through, they would overlook them unless they knew.

It was a whole other lifetime ago.

A life of tea-no sugar, coffee two scoops. Hours of typing about the science of deduction, experiments where there was food. Moments of leaving to stand around a crime scene, hours of returning to pace and think about the evidence. Fleeting glances, and lingering smiles. ’Not your housekeeper’s and ‘the game is on’s. A blue scarf, paired with a long dark peacoat, hung next to a worn green jacket. One filled with clients, and drug busts. Something was always happening at 221B Baker Street.

Long gone, those days have passed, leaving the empty flat cold and uninviting.

I sigh, the sound overbearingly loud in the still air. Hands in pockets, I stand in the doorway leading to the kitchen, jaw set at the scene before me. Seeing it so lifeless was heart wrenching, the lack of commotion unnatural. Unease fills me as a sudden draft sways past the curtains, running over me with its chilly touch. Tucking my arms against myself, I recoil from the breeze, hating how it mocks me. It shifts the dust, new valleys created and old ones destroyed, the only movement in the still room. This terrible still room, no typing or pacing. No Mind Palaces, no blogging, no crap telly playing in the background.

This place is lifeless.

 

Scanning my eyes over the chairs again, regret taps the walls as echoed memories resound, an imitation but not the real thing. Fleeting images of two men, sitting in their chairs one on a laptop the other with hands in a steeple under his chin, go by. Hushed murmurs of the two holding each other, desperate for a presence that cares. I see the two shouting, eating take out, solving cases, linking hands. I hear compliments wrapped in insults, reassurances, aimless chatter, intoxicated slurs.

These things fade, as all things do. I lean in the doorway, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes but my vision remains clear. 221B was never meant to be so deserted, occupants gone taking their excitement as they went. The chairs were not made to be left behind, the table looked wrong without the microscope and clutter. The wall was plain with no notes or pictures tacked to it. The bedroom was a sleepless place, haunted by nightmares and empty beds.

This place is lonely.

~*~*~*~

I wake alone in a cold sweat, Sherlock still sleeping beside me, images of my nightmare flick through my mind; Sherlock yelling at me, telling me how worthless I am and how he doesn’t care. I wrap my arms around my knees tucked to my chest and let his words ring through my head.

“How could anyone love you?”

“I was made to work.”

“Why, of all people, did it have to be you?”

“You never counted, you know.” 

“You deserve to be alone.”

I can’t cry, I’m too empty inside to produce tears, so my breath just stutters, broken gasps of air. Shoulders shaking, body wracking heaves jolt through me as the misery seizes me. My leg feels like it’s being ripped apart, and my hand is trembling so much I can’t keep my arms wrapped around my legs, so I cover my face with them, leaning against my knees. Shuddering, I reach into my pocket and pull out the bullet, staring at the shiny piece of metal. I enclose it around my fingers, and then open them again to stare at it in my palm. The cold pellet feels normal in my hand, it’s smaller than the one that went through my shoulder.

It reminds me of my days in Afghanistan, seeing so many men killed by these molded bits of lead. Most of them went slowly, having time to bleed out because the bullet missed their hearts. The lucky ones had just seconds to realize what happened before it was over. If the bullet landed in the right spot, the brain wouldn’t have time to register the pain before it was too late, but having perfect aim was a hard thing to come by.

Dragging my hands down my face, letting them fall into my lap, I lean against the headboard. Looking at the ceiling, but not really seeing it, I push back the memories. I turn my head to Sherlock, who was still asleep with his face buried in the pillow and arm in a strange position from when I sat up and it slid from my side. As I lay back down, he turns in his sleep, his arms snaking around me and pulling me to him. He slides a leg between mine, leaning half on me, and uses my shoulder as a pillow. The action makes me blush, though he is asleep, and I grab his hand in my shaking one, entwining our fingers as I close my eyes.

~*~*~*~

When I wake, Sherlock is gone, my hand outstretched, lying in the empty spot. A note is placed on his pillow, his familiar handwriting across the paper.

John,

I went out to buy groceries and to stop by the Yard. Text me if you need anything, I’ll be back as soon as I can.

-SH

I shake my head, he always initials things when it was obviously him who wrote it. Pocketing the paper, I stretch and go to the kitchen to make tea. While the water is warming up, I look for a mug in the clutter of the cabinets. As I’m reaching for one, my fingers hit something metal, smooth, and cold. Curiosity gets the better of me and I stand on tip toes to grab it, nearly dropping it when I see what it is.

The gun.

My hand shakes, the 22 nearly slipping from my fingers, but I clasp it in both hands. I stare at it, this very gun I looked at when I was drunk and missing Sherlock. The gun I ran my fingers across when the nightmares kept me from sleeping. I check it, finding it unloaded, remembering the three bullets and the one in my pocket.

It would be so easy, so fast.

I touch the trigger, amazed at how calm I am. I take out the bullet from my pocket and hold it in one hand with the gun in the other. I have the killing thing, but without the bullet it has no power to kill me. Moments from my nightmares flash before my eyes, and grief weighs me down once more. Almost in a daze, I methodically start to put the bullet in the gun, but I drop both when the tea kettle shrieks, its scream too loud for the quiet room.

I put the bullet back in my pocket and the gun where I found it, and pour myself a glass of tea, nearly unable to drink because my hand is trembling worse than before. Setting the cup down, I close my eyes, images and words crossing my mind. Sherlock and I giggling at a crime scene the first day we met, Moriarty pretending to be Richard Brook and trying to make me doubt Sherlock, the phone call, seeing him on the ground, when he kissed my forehead, bits of my nightmares, drinking that first night, offering my life for his at the pool, standing at his grave.

I make a decision, getting dressed and grabbing a few things on my way out. Before I go, I write a short note to Sherlock and leave it on the fridge because I know he’ll go there first with the groceries. I nearly run from the flat, needing to do this before I change my mind. My cup of tea, still full, sits next to my chair, growing colder with each step I take from 221B.

~*~*~*~

Looking around the bare flat, one might think it was never lived in. No personal items remain, the furniture is fairly untarnished, no warmth or signs of welcome. I see no traces of life, and had I not known who lived here all those years ago, I wouldn’t believe anyone had. The harder I try to spot something, anything, the more resolute the darkness becomes, and the light starts fading from the windows. It seems, as though I am the first person here since the furniture was place on the wooden floors, nothing else disrupting the frozen room.

Just dust, thick with time as the clock ticks ever on.

I tread tentatively through the room, fingers brushing over the back of the two chairs. I step into the sunlight, squinting at the street below, graffiti marking the walls of buildings and people walking with their heads down. This part of London has become run down, a poison slowly creeping down the streets without someone to solve the crimes and catch the murders. I walk away from the window, nearly touching the violin stand that remains, a small note lay on top of single sheet of music faded with age. The measures are nearly impossible to see, and a title is sprawled across the top, written with a shaky hand.

‘You were made for me.’

~*~*~*~

I hop into a cab, giving the driver instructions and tuck my hands in my pockets, wishing my heart would stop pounding against my ribcage. I clench my hand into a fist, trying to stop the tremor. We arrive at my destination, I hand the cabbie money and stand on the side walk, facing the archway before me. Taking a deep breath, I walk under the wrought iron arc, following the path beneath my soles.

Though I’ve only walked it once before, the turns and forks of tapering path are burned into my mind. As I limp down the little walkways, I keep my head down, arms tucked to my sides. When I reach the spot I stop, the slight breeze rustling through the eaves of the tree above me. Looking up at the braches a single dead leaf dried and brown lets go. It falls, dancing back and forth and twirling in the air before it lands on the smooth black surface.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

The grave stands in front of me, still shinning as if new and just placed. I stand before the tombstone, feeling as empty inside as the ground beneath me. Kneeling on the soft ground, I place a hand against the letters spelling out his name. I trace them as tears build up in my eyes. I never cried before I started drinking, god, what have I become. Sitting against my heels, I place myself on the grass in front the tombstone. Still gripping it, my fingers shaking against the cold stone, I speak with a hoarse voice.

“I came back from war, battered and a mess. Then I met you, and I shot a man to stop you from taking a pill. The weeks went on like that, solving crimes and blogging about it. We became quiet famous, well you did. Then there was that night at the pool, I grabbed Moriarty and told you to run. I would have died for you that night, I’d still die for you now. After that, I felt closer to you than I was before, realizing I’d do anything for you, anything to keep you safe. Turns out, you did the same for me.

“I didn’t know you jumped to save me, I thought it was my fault. So when you stopped me by the hospital and told me not to move, I did as you said. For months after, I was tormented thinking, ‘Could I have gotten to you in time if I hadn’t stood there?’ I thought it was my, my curse following me,” I sob, voice breaking as I talk to the obsidian stone, “I believed it was my destiny to be alone, and anyone I got close to… I thought it was my fault. I drove you away, because nobody stays.”

I pause, unable to talk, unable to breathe as the air couldn’t make it to my lungs through my whimpering. I take the bullet out of my pocket, holding it in my quivering hand, my fingers enclosing it as I try to stop the shaking. Gasping for air in broken stutters, my tears blurring the fourteen letters that cracked the wall.

“I was here. I talked to you after the funeral. I, I asked you not to be dead, so you weren’t. You visited me every night. That first night, aft-after you died, I got so wasted I didn’t even make it to my room. I curled up in your chair and screamed until I passed out. I was so angry, Sherlock. I was so mad at myself for being the reason, and not doing anything. Then the nightmares started, and I saw you die, in so many ways, and I always ended up alone.

“You told me that day alone protects you, and I hope that still works for you, because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending like I’m getting better, I can’t keep pretending like I don’t want to numb the pain with alcohol, I can’t keep pretending that I want to go on. I’m sorry, Sherlock, that I brought this upon you. That I cast everyone away, because they were never meant to be close to me. And you’ve gotten the closest. Perhaps that’s why this is so painful, because the closer you get to me, the worse this is going to get, for both of us. I can’t do that to you Sherlock, I care too much about you, though I suppose that’s the problem.

“Seeing you hit the ground, and every other death since in my nightmares, was the perfect fuel for the fire burning at the string attaching me to people. Every drink I consumed was the perfect ammunition. I wanted to die that night, the first lonely night, and every night since. And so went the long road, I was ready to let my loneliness win, to let it be the death of me. I still am,” my sobs now just uneven breaths as a sudden feeling of tranquility rises in me as I finally confess this.

I pull my other hand from my pocket, the object catching on the opening and I yank it from my coat. It sits heavy in my hand, but the weight is familiar, like walking through the front door after being away from home for a long time. I shift it in my hand, holding it in a more comfortable position, rubbing my thumb along the smooth side.

The gun.

The empty 22, cold metal in my grip, felt so right in my hand. I stared at it, not feeling the tears falling from my eyes as my sobs stopped. Calmly, I glance between my two hands, and then place the bullet in the cartridge. My hands move smoothly, steadily, as I click it into place and check the safety. Off.

“You told me once, that you’re not a hero, but you are. You stopped my loneliness, if only for a while. You came back, and stuck with me these past weeks even though I’ve been terrible. You saved me, countless times, and for that I can never repay you. But thank you, Sherlock Holmes, for everything.”

I pat his stone one last time, tears drying on my face as I lift the gun to my right temple, holding the gun still with ease.

~*~*~*~

Moving away from the music sheet, feeling the pain in the words and notes, I brush through to the kitchen, passing by the two chairs. I don’t have to look in the cabinets to know they’re empty, not that they ever held much food anyway. I can almost smell the take-out, Chinese wafting through but gone before it existed. I can nearly hear Mrs. Hudson fretting about body parts in the fridge, and shake my head at her endearing voice. Curiously, I look in the drawers, blood running cold when I see the contents of one.

Three bullets.

Untouched by dust, still shiny, and waiting to be counted they lay. Rolling slightly at the disruption of the drawer being pulled open, the soft clatters as they hit the wooden sides sound unbearably loud in the dim flat. The other contents of the drawer were emptied, the ammunition left behind to sulk with the dust and tick-tocks as the darkness grows in this abandoned life. Leaving the kitchen, the sound of two dying people crying on the phone haunts my ears.

“That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”

“No, don’t.”

“Goodbye, John.”

“Sherlock!” 

Sighing, I walk to a room off the main room to see a bed, surprised to find it made without a single crease in the sheets. Looking around the room, I see a small cane placed on the bedside table, next to it a folded blue scarf. Slowly walking closer, I see a small note, nearly identical to the one next to the sheet of music. That one said, ‘Thank you for being my hero.’ This one says, ‘Heroes don’t exist, but if they did I would only be one for you.’

Smiling at the note, I glance around the room again, images of the dark curly haired man and shorter lighter haired soldier. I can see them lying next to each other in bed, holding each other as they sleep. I see the smaller one crying, and the detective holding him and telling him he matters. Ghostly scenes flash by of just the Army doctor, trying to escape nightmares, screaming in his sleep ‘Sherlock, don’t!’ waking up and whispering ‘I just want to die.’

The isolated feeling begins to suffocate me, the empty rooms and charted dust. As I turn to leave, one last thing flashes before me, the two holding hands in their sleep, curled in on each other in an attempt to hold the other together. Depression threatens to torment me, the shadows snapping at my heels. I walk through the door way, and over to the chairs. Sitting in one, I close my eyes and fade back into the obscurity alone, one last thought passing through my mind.

This place was wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
> 
> So that was it! I'll let you draw your own conclusions, it was hard for me to decide on an ending. I would like to thank anyone who has read or voted for this story, it means a lot to me.
> 
> Also, a MASSIVE thank you to my friend Zoe who is super mega awesome and edited my chapters for grammar errors and such. She also gave me advice and helped with plot ideas and she deserves credit for being so kind! Zoe, I say this to you personally, this story would not be the way it is, and maybe not even completed had you not lent a hand, so a thousand thanks and you have my gratitude. Have a bagel!
> 
> This is the end of this story, but please feel free to check out my others and maybe once I've finished those I will write another Johnlock!
> 
> It was fun!
> 
> ~Ashley~


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